


i'll be running home to you

by bringmoreknivez



Category: My Chemical Romance, The Flatshare - Beth O'Leary
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Inspired by Novel, M/M, Museums, Post-it Notes, Roommates, Sharing a Bed, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, Weddings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:01:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 24,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26416861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bringmoreknivez/pseuds/bringmoreknivez
Summary: Gerard Way and Frank Iero are roommates. Gerard and Frank have never met.In which Gerard is a museum archivist in desperate need for a place to stay following a messy breakup, and Frank is a night shift employee in need of some extra cash. Gerard can have the apartment during the nighttime and weekends, and Frank’s there during the day. It’s an excellent deal, yet, Gerard never factored in falling for his roommate as a part of the plan.Partially inspired by Beth O’Leary’s novelThe Flatshare.
Relationships: Frank Iero/Gerard Way
Comments: 59
Kudos: 124





	1. Gerard

**Author's Note:**

> Howdy, everybody! Woohoo, got another fic idea (for those of you who wanted a sequel to my last fic - it's coming! I just want to cleanse my palate with something new for the time being). It's partially inspired by one of my favorite books from the last few years, _The Flatshare_ by Beth O'Leary. I suppose I loved it so much that I decided to apply Frerard to it  
> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Anyhow, I hope y'all enjoy this one! It'll be told from both Gerard and Frank's perspectives, and written in the first person, which isn't super common for me. But I think I'll have a fun time with this story!
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are super appreciated: a big, virtual hug to everyone who leaves me feedback.
> 
> (The title of this fic comes from the wonderful song "home with you" by FKA twigs.)

_I didn't know that you were lonely_

_If you'd have just told me, I'd be home with you_

_I didn't know that you were lonely_

_If you'd have just told me, I'd be running down the hills to you_

_\- "home with you," FKA twigs_

★

Archival work is a real pleasant way of passing time. Handling and examining really-cool-but-stupidly-fragile historical artifacts, writing down descriptions of said really-cool-but-stupidly-fragile historical artifacts, placing them in temperature-controlled storage units. Entering each item’s number into the museum’s absurdly massive collections system.

But most pertinently, there’s the quiet.

Being a museum archivist is the ideal career for an introvert. Or, people with ever-present internal monologues that don’t dial down even when they’re amongst other human beings.

It’s just you, some local legislature document from the 1800s, and the endless quiet.

Except, however, when the quiet is punctuated by the pitchy _ding_ of your cell phone, signaling an incoming message from your pesky younger brother.

Sigh.

I rapidly punch the rest of the old document’s accession number into the system with my keyboard, and then I cast a cursory glance over to my iPhone, face-up on the worn wooden table I’m sitting at. The glow of the screen seems rather harsh in contrast to the dim lamplight of the archive: too much brightness isn’t good for the artifacts.

I snatch up my phone and glide my pointer finger across the screen, opening up the messages app. I begin to wonder what the hell it is Mikey could possibly want _while I’m at work_ , but then it hits me once I skim the contents of his text.

_**Mikey:** I found a Facebook ad for a ridiculously cheap apartment here in Newark. Take a look at it. Alicia and I think it’d be good for you :) _

Translation: “Alicia and I think it’d be good for you _to get out of our place_.” I’d been crashing with my brother and his fiancée since… since, well, I moved out of Bert’s place.

I chew on my lip and stare at Mikey’s message a little longer, and hover my finger over the link he’s attached. Don’t think about Bert, I decide—at least not while there’s work to be done here.

Leaning back into the unforgiving hardness of the wooden chair—the archive of the museum isn’t quite known for its cozy furniture; bosses insisted cushioned ones were out of the budget—I tap on the link Mikey’s sent me.

I think he can see that I’ve already read the message, because the moment I’m transferred to the Facebook app, he’s shooting me an onslaught of further messages, my phone releasing more pitchy _dings_ in rapid succession.

Note to self: turn off read receipts.

_**Mikey:** So, what do you think? _

I ignore his message for the moment and decide that I’ll tell him to bug off while I’m at work, doing a _very_ important job and handling _very_ important artifacts, thank you very much.

I’ll tell him that after reading this Facebook marketplace ad, of course.

The ad is simply written and to the point, but quite frankly, I think I’m already ready to pack my shit up and leave by the time my vision scans across the advertiser’s asking price.

_Single bedroom apartment in downtown Newark, New Jersey, asking price $600/month. Renter to share apartment/bed with twenty-five year-old psychiatric technician who works nights and is away weekends. Renter will have full access to apartment during nighttime and weekends. For further information, contact Frank Iero through his Facebook profile or via his email, which is provided below._

I’m so ridiculously giddy that I hardly even give notice to the fact that I might be sleeping in a complete stranger’s bed.


	2. Frank

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks. Another chapter already! I know these chapters are sort of short to begin with, but I at least wanted to introduce you all to both Gerard and Frank's perspectives.
> 
> Anyhow, I hope you all enjoy what I've got uploaded so far! And a big thank you to those of you who have commented and left kudos already. It means the world to me!
> 
> Happy reading! xoxo
> 
> (Also, quick lil content warning: Frank works with folks who are suffering from varying mental health crises, both in a hospital and through a crisis hotline. Nothing's ever going to get too detailed or in-depth, but if discussion of that kind of thing triggers you, then I would please be cautious!)

The Greater New Jersey Outreach Hotline—great resource, not such a great outlet for volunteer work.

Alright, well, to be fair, I don’t _dislike_ giving my time and expertise to a crisis hotline, but it’s also not the most cheerful way to spend your Friday nights. You know, listening to youth vent about their varying mental health crises. 

I feel like I can help. I think I can. I’ve got the psych degree to prove it. But _fuck_ , listening to some of these kids, you feel so damn useless. 

I want every voice I hear on the other end of the line, often wavering and wobbling through the tears, to make it through the night safe. But every time I hear that _click_ into fuzziness on the other end of the call, I feel like I’m gulping in mouthfuls of salt water.

I could be at the bar with Ray just about now, I think. Beer in hand. Conscience fuzzy, rather than the fuzzy receiving end of a landline telephone. “But, the kids _need_ you,” Ray would say.

I want to think he’s right.

★

“So, you’re just going to be opening your bed up to a random stranger?”

“No, not really.”

_Yes. Kind of. Yes, really. I could really, really use the extra cash._

I open my mouth to continue, but Jamia, my girlfriend, is still not looking amused. Lips pressed into a firm line, blinking slowly—not good.

Jamia leans forward onto the kitchen table, and grabs for her mug of Earl Grey. Steam comes pouring out of the mug, the pastel blue gingham mug that my mother _insisted_ I have, as she shifts it on the table. She takes a hesitant sip, eyes only fleeting away from my own for a moment.

“Well, here’s the thing.” Jamia opens her mouth to say something, but then snaps her lips shut almost immediately following. “I work night shifts. I sleep during the day. I offer up the apartment to someone who, you know, _works a regular job_ , and it’s not like we’ll ever have to really _share_ the bed, anyways.”

She swirls her teaspoon around the mug, and shoots me a quizzical gaze. “So, some sucker with a nine to five job?”

“Yes,” I respond, grinning. “A sucker like _you_.”

Jamia knows I’m just fucking with her this time. I can tell by the way she’s pursing her lips and narrowing her eyes at me, like she’s just caught a whiff of something funny. She always does that. She reaches over the table to grab my hand, which has sort of awkwardly been tapping the tabletop for some time now.

“What if the person you invite into your home _and_ your bed is some sort of serial killer or something?”

“As long as they pay their share of the bills and don’t leave any suspicious blood droppings on the carpet, then I’d say we’re fine.”

★

An hour later: incoming Facebook message from some dude named Gerard Way. Some dude who’s wearing a fucking _waistcoat_ in his profile picture.

_**Gerard Way:** Hello, Mr. Iero (or, just Frank? Maybe we should start to get less formal if I’m trying to move into your place). This message is just to inquire about the Facebook marketplace ad you recently put out about looking for a roommate. I work 9 to 5 at a museum, so suffice to say I won’t ever get in your hair—perfect fit for what you’re looking for. Let’s chat soon? (Also, I’m not messy. Just prepare for a lot of books, which I guess won’t be a bad thing if you’re an avid reader.)_

Serial killers definitely _don’t_ wear waistcoats.


	3. Gerard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! I hope you've all been well, and my endless gratitude to those of you who have already commented/left kudos! (I absolutely love hearing my readers' thoughts.)
> 
> I'd also like to apologize in advance for a possibly inconsistent update schedule. I'm in my last year of undergrad and I'm working three jobs, so, suffice to say I'm rather busy. But, don't worry! Writing is how I like to spend my free time, so I'm hoping you guys won't have to go too long at a time without new chapters.
> 
> That's enough from my end. So, enjoy the new chapter! xoxo

* * *

I surprise myself by creeping on Frank Iero’s Facebook profile only _after_ I’ve messaged him. Wouldn’t it have made more sense to, you know, complete those tasks in the opposite order?

Either way, it’s been two days since I reached out to him on Friday night. He seemed friendly enough, although his messages were rather brief compared to mine. I can be rather rambly—what can I say? Years spent writing paper after paper in the grip of academia’s fist will do that to you. 

To be fair, though, I don’t really think I _need_ to be super friendly with Frank Iero. We just need to get along well enough to share a living space. And a bed.

It’s not like we’ll ever encounter each other much, anyways.

Having crawled out from the archive for my lunch break, I’m sitting in the office, stuffing a rather crumbly croissant into my mouth bit by bit, flakes of pastry tumbling down onto my shirt with every bite. 

Every time I make my way up to the office, my coworkers like to make a big fuss out of it. Mainly to annoy me, I think. You know, it’s not often I’m out of the archive and walking around the actual museum, but it’s not like I’m dead.

(Case in point: Lindsey, one of our education coordinators, nearly snapped her neck in order to cast a look at me and shout, “He’s _aliiiive_!” I need to tell Lindsey that I’m _not_ Frankenstein’s Monster, contrary to popular belief.)

I’m not dead. I promise. But I do spend a great amount of time with dead people, at least academically.

I’ve lugged my laptop up to the office with me; the screen’s brightness doesn’t seem too harsh now that I’m in a room with somewhat normal lighting. Tapping away at the keyboard, I pull up Facebook, and then, subsequently, Frank’s profile.

I haven’t even sent him a friend request yet, or vice versa.

His profile picture makes him look friendly and non-threatening enough for my tastes—someone I could potentially jibe with, or, at the very least, tolerate. Across his face is a wide, toothy smile. He’s got short black hair, cropped around his ears, but what intrigues me is the many tattoos I see curling up around his neck and branded across his forearms, where he’s rolled up the sleeves of the charcoal-colored cardigan he’s wearing. 

My previous Facebook Stalking had shown to me that he works in some sort of healthcare field, so, that’s pretty cool. That’s not something you see every day.

Posed next to Frank in the photo is a woman who bears an almost identical grin, Frank’s arm laid gently across her shoulders—I click away from the profile picture for a moment. 

Right across the top of Frank’s profile: _In a relationship with Jamia Nestor._

Ah, so that must be her.

I’m about to continue shuffling through Frank’s photos when I’m startled by the sound of footsteps behind me— _click, click, click_. The unmistakable noise of boot heels on tile. I almost drop my croissant, and press my lips together before swirling around in my desk chair.

“Who’s that?” It’s Lindsey—I should’ve known. She purchased a new pair of heeled ankle boots a week ago and hasn’t stopped wearing them since.

“Those shoes always signal your arrival, you know,” I say, glancing upwards at her, “God forbid you ever wanted to sneak up on someone.”

She rolls her eyes at me, but then reaches for the chair adjacent to mine, seating herself in it. 

“Whatever. That’s the price I’ll have to pay to look good,” she starts, tapping her fingernails on the tabletop. “Anyways. Enough about my shoes. Who’s the mystery man and why are you lurking on his social media?”

I sit myself up straighter, and shift the plate holding my half-eaten croissant aside for a moment. Meeting eyes with Lindsey, I can tell she’s inquisitive, with the way hers are narrowed and her lips are pursed together. 

If it were any other coworker, I’d have shooed them away—I’d like to keep my life inside and outside the museum _separate_ , thank you very much. But, it’s Lindsey. 

I innately trust her more. I couldn’t tell you why, exactly, but her nature makes me feel automatically more comfortable with sharing these aspects of my life with her. She can be sarcastic and snarky to a fault sometimes, yes, but beneath that, there’s a clear veneer of authenticity and tenderness.

I tilt my laptop to allow Lindsey a better view of my screen. I push a wayward tuft of hair away from my eyes, and gaze up at my coworker once more, scanning her expression for any immediate reactions.

“This… is my potential new roommate, I guess?” I instantly don’t know why my statement sounds so unsure. Me moving in is pretty much all but confirmed—there’s just a bit more paperwork to be completed.

And, you know, I should probably go check out the place first, too.

She raises her vision upwards from the screen after seemingly only a few seconds of looking. If I were none the wiser, I’d have thought she hadn’t even looked. But, that’s just Lindsey. Fast and snappy.

“He looks nice,” she starts, resting her elbow on the table, “and good-looking. Just don’t have another, er… Bert situation.”

I reach for my laptop and slide it further away from Lindsey, my eyes narrowed and nose crinkled. One more mention of Bert, either from a family member or a well-intentioned coworker, and I think I might hurl. Actually.

And we can’t have any barf stains on my white button-downs for work, can we?

“I’m not looking to date this guy, Linds,” I quip in response, “and besides, he's got a girlfriend.”

Lindsey huffs, and cups her chin in her hand, elbow still propped upwards. Chewing on her lower lip, she slides her free hand across the table in my direction, seemingly as a peace offering.

“Sorry if any mention of Bert, I mean, ‘He Who Must Not Be Named,’ upset you.” She pauses and appears thoughtful for a moment. “Anyways. I wanted to ask you something: if you’d like to help us out with programming to go along with the new temporary exhibition that’s coming at the end of the month.”

Willing myself to offer Lindsey any semblance of a smile, any type of positive expression, I snap my laptop shut and push it aside, reaching for my discarded croissant in exchange.

I nod rapidly. “Yeah, sure. Whatever I can do to help.”

Whatever will distract my conscience away from wandering, rogue thoughts of Bert will suffice.

★

I’ve barely crossed through the threshold of the front door into Mikey and Alicia’s place when my phone buzzes dully in my back pocket.

I kick off my shoes and discard them at the kitschy welcome mat by the entrance, and immediately, I’m greeted by Alicia. 

Alicia, who, at times, seems to perhaps know me even more intimately than my own brother.

I’ve already turned on my heel and veered towards the bathroom when she starts. 

“Gerard, was work fine? Are you alright?” I hear as I close the bathroom door behind me, locking it with a soft _click_. “We can talk about it over dinner, if you’d like? I have pasta on the stove.”

I call out to her, muffled through the barrier of the wooden door, that I’ll see her at the dinner table in five minutes.

Alicia. My soon-to-be sister-in-law. She’s good, but maybe, sometimes, she’s _too_ good. 

I can’t tug my phone out of my pocket quickly enough. As expected, it’s a Facebook messenger notification, from Frank again.

Perched on the toilet, I almost feel the need to restrain myself from shouting out in joy. _No, Alicia, I’m not having diarrhea, I just might have scored a cheap apartment. No cause for alarm._

_**Frank Iero:** Hi, Gerard. Thanks again for your interest in renting my place. I hope “sharing” the bed won’t be too much of an issue for you. I promise I’m not gross, or anything. Any chance you’d like to come by this weekend to see the place and fill out some of that remaining paperwork? _


	4. Frank

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi folks, sorry it took me longer to update this time! Schoolwork sort of had me all tied up. I hope this update proves to be well worth it!
> 
> As always, my plentiful thanks to all of you who have read and shown me love so far. It's everything to me as an amateur writer. Blabbering aside, I hope you all are staying safe, given the pandemic right now!
> 
> Lots of love, and enjoy the new chapter xoxo

I can’t remember the last time I’ve had a Friday off, so that seems reason enough for celebration to me. 

And by celebration, I mean going down to the pub with Ray, tossing back a few beers, and demolishing an order of nachos. Really, there’s nothing else I’d rather be doing.

It’s about two in the afternoon, and the two of us are across from each other in a booth—one that’s rather tightly-packed, which is more of a problem for Ray and his gangly legs than it is for me. I’m not quite as blessed in the height department.

Ray’s about to raise the rim of his mug of beer to his lips when he stops and places it back on the sticky tabletop, interrupted (and perhaps startled, by the looks of his expression) by the buzzing of my iPhone, face down on the table.

“I bet it’s Jamia again,” Ray murmurs, grabbing for his mug again. He sips, and is left with a frothy mustache on his upper lip.

I hold my breath, and flip over the phone. Ray was right, not that I had any doubts. She’s trying to call me, but I make the executive decision to let it go to voicemail—she hates, _despises_ it when I do that.

I know she’s a bit peeved that I chose to hang out with Ray today instead of her. But, really, I devote essentially _every_ weekend to her, sleeping at her place. So much so, that I feel like I probably owe her rent.

Besides, I’ve had to keep blowing Ray off, whether it be for work or Jamia-related affairs, consistently. So, the least I owe the guy is a lunch out together. It’s the least I owe _myself_.

Placing my phone face-down on the table once more, I reach for my own beer. Ray’s been nursing his for quite some time now, whereas I haven’t even taken a single swig. When I raise my vision to meet my friend’s again, Ray is looking at me knowingly. The way he always does, when he senses that I’m not telling him something.

“Listen, don’t take this the wrong way, because I think Jamia’s great but—,” he starts, then pauses, swallowing thickly, “but, she needs to learn that you need some _you_ time, for Christ’s sake.”

I nod, and swallow my mouthful of alcohol. It’s bitter.

“I know,” I say, casting a wayward glance down to the blank tabletop, “I just _feel_ bad, ya know? Because she does so much for me.”

Ray opens his mouth to respond, but then promptly snaps it shut once he takes note of our waitress approaching with a tray of gooey nachos, steam trailing behind her with every swift step forward.

“You don’t have to feel bad for asserting boundaries, man,” he continues, piling handfuls of tortilla chips onto his plate. “If you’re not at the clinic, you’re volunteering for the hotline. If you’re not doing either of those things, you’re at Jamia’s apartment. There’s nothing wrong with needing some time to do what _you_ want to do.”

I want to say that I _suppose_ Ray is right. But, well, he is right. Like always. Ray, with that ever-knowing mind of his. Ever since we met in college and hit it off, he’s been able to read me instantly without much insight from my end. Maybe he should’ve been the psych major instead.

“Well—,” I begin, before being cut off by Ray again.

He’s grinning in between mouthfuls of nachos. _Crunchcrunchcrunch_. “Don’t start with me, mister. You’re going to eat some nachos and you’re going to like it.”

★

I’ve barely kicked off my shoes onto the mat by the front door of my apartment before I notice that I’ve missed a few texts from Jamia, my phone screen blinking angrily at me.

 _Shit_.

I try to recall Ray’s advice as I pad across the creaky wood-paneled floor to the kitchen table, passing my phone nervously through my fingers. _Don’t apologize for taking time to yourself_.

Ray makes it sound so easy.

I’m already envisioning what I’ll tap out in reply to Jamia when I plunge myself into the first chair I approach, swiping my pointer finger across my phone’s cracked screen to view the messages. _I’m sorry babe, come over tonight?_ Maybe I’ll say that, and she’ll come over promptly at seven and cook us some dinner, and then we’ll have sex, and then all will be well again. That always puts a nice little bow on everything.

Although, now that I think of it, the concept of ordering some Chinese takeout and watching a horror movie by myself tonight does sound rather tantalizing at the moment.

I’m not expecting what I see when I unlock my phone.

As expected, Jamia first expressed disappointment over my choice to hang out with Ray rather than her today. “You’re so busy,” “We don’t spend enough time together”—the usual.

I also had informed her that Gerard, the waistcoat guy from Facebook, had shown significant interest in renting, and that I had told him to stop by this weekend to check out the place and fill out some paperwork.

Her response, perhaps as a result of the frustration regarding my jam-packed schedule, was this:

_**Jamia ♥:** How about I handle the business side of things with this Gerard guy? You know, collect his rent payments, maintain contact with him. I could even show him the apartment this weekend if, you know, you wanted to visit family or something. _

I lean my elbows against the scratchy tablecloth that’s stretched across the round kitchen table. I blink, maybe because I can’t believe what I’m reading. Partially, it feels like Jamia is attempting to entrench herself into every sphere of my life. Which is sort of not cool. I know she never means it that way though, when she does these things—she just wants to be helpful.

But, on the other hand, it would actually be sort of convenient to have something else taken off my chest.

I nibble on my bottom lip. I was sort of anticipating meeting Gerard in person this weekend. I’m not afraid to admit that I did some high-tier Internet stalking, but who doesn’t these days? But it’s not like we’ll _never_ cross paths.

I pause, and glance up at the wall directly across from me, the bland eggshell paint cracked in some areas. My tastes in decor are rather plain, and the wall’s only adornments are an incorrectly-timed circular clock and a crooked framed photo of Jamia and I, taken on our first New Year’s Eve together. I look drunk as shit, my eyes bulging. 

Jamia looked so beautiful that night, with her silver dress tucked under her neat black peacoat, her eyes dazzling.

I punch out two short responses, one coming directly after the other.

_**Frank:** I’m sorry babe, I was at the pub with Ray. It’s good to catch up with him. Come over tonight? _

_**Frank:** Also, it’d be great if you want to handle things with Gerard, by the way. _

Really, though, I don’t know if “great” is just the word for it.


	5. Gerard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh! I apologize for taking a million years to upload this time - I am a college student, and this semester has been rather hectic with assignments. But, with winter break approaching, I'm hoping I'll be granted more time to write.
> 
> As always, thanks to those of you who have given me love so far! xoxo

I’ve been living out of boxes for approximately the past two months.

I suppose that’s what happens when your long-term relationship abruptly ends and you’ve got no choice but to move in with your brother, sleeping on the couch. I’ve been living out of boxes, namely because Mikey and Alicia don’t have the extra drawer space for my clothes nor the extra shelf space for my books and other belongings.

Maybe that’s just a convenient enough excuse for me. I’d been dreading the anticipation of what I’d find, what I’d feel, when I tore those boxes fully open again.

I suppose that today is that day.

“Do you think this is too formal?” I ask Mikey, my right arm extended, the other buried deep in a Sharpie-marked cardboard box. Clenched in my hand is a lightly-creased button-down shirt—scratch that, it’s one of my _many_ button-down shirts. They’re practically all I wear to work.

Mikey, from across the living room, reclines further back in his well-worn armchair. Clucking his tongue, he draws his eyes narrower. “You’re just going to check out an apartment, not going to a wedding.”

I can feel a sigh passing my lips, and I fail at any attempt of suppressing it. Maybe I’m too keen on formality, but I _do_ want to make a good first impression upon meeting Frank, since he’s been kind enough to open up his home _and_ his bed to a complete stranger. 

The thought of my soon-to-be situation is still mildly perplexing to me—the whole sharing a bed thing. 

“Yeah, but I still want to look nice and neat,” I start, turning away from the box of clothes for a moment, “and hey, how does my hair look?”

“As rumpled and ruffled as ever,” Mikey chuckles, eyeing the fuzzy television screen adjacent to where he’s seated. 

_Is he even paying attention?_ Netflix is running on the TV, and I can glean that Mikey would much rather be rewatching _That 70s Show_ than soothing my nerves.

I scowl, but he doesn’t see it.

From the kitchenette just across the hallway, I catch a glimpse of Alicia, who’s sitting at the counter, probably jotting down the items for this week’s grocery list. She looks equally as focused as Mikey is—although, her activity of choice is perhaps more productive—but, out of nowhere, her head shoots right up.

“Gerard, sweetheart, you look just _fine_ ,” she pipes up, smiling sweetly, “don’t listen to your brother.” She stops, and shoots Mikey a look, who puts his hands up in defeat.

Mikey, perhaps in defense of himself, grabs around for the remote and switches the TV off, the screen immediately shifting to blackness. Meeting eyes with his fiancée, he claims, “Hey, I’m not a stylist, alright?”

Alicia then raises herself from her barstool at the kitchen counter, making her way over to the living room. Approaching where I’m sitting cross-legged on the carpet, she raises a dark eyebrow and points to a loose knit sleeve that’s dangling out of the corner of the box. 

“What’s that?” she asks, prompting me to snatch it up. 

I eyeball her, and then the garment, and then her again as I tug it fully out of the box. “This is just one of my old sweaters,” I respond, running my fingers over its woolly material.

I likely haven’t worn this thing since college, now that I think of it.

“That’s cute! Wear that with some jeans or something,” Alicia muses, her black-lined eyes crinkling. 

I consider Alicia’s proposition for a moment, gazing back down at the sweater. It’s simple in design, covered in thick, horizontal black and white stripes, and is soft from age and frequent wear. 

And then it hits me. Without any semblance of a warning.

This is the sweater I wore on my first date with Bert.

I feel my breath hitch and my body stiffen. It hits me all at once—the memories. How I’d been so nervous, so jittery that I’d knocked over my glass of water at the restaurant Bert and I had been dining at. How I’d rushed to tug handfuls of paper napkins out of the table’s dispenser, how he’d laughed it off, how his eyes had crinkled, how we’d—

I stop myself, snipping off my trail of consciousness.

I’m going to wear the sweater, I decide. I’d better trudge through heartbreak by facing it forwardly.

★

My thoughts are decidedly vacant as I sit in the rear of my Uber driver’s sedan. Doesn’t help that said Uber driver is of the chatty sort.

The notion of meeting Frank and at long last seeing my soon-to-be residence is thrilling. But I’m ever-conscious of myself, immensely cognizant of my own nerves. The sweater isn’t as much of a lucky charm as I had hoped it would be.

I absentmindedly pick at the loose threads hanging from its left sleeve, partially tuning out my driver’s rambling. He’s blathering on about how the Subway down the road from his apartment burnt his bulkie roll when toasting it.

“I could’ve broken a tooth with how crisp that roll was—it was like biting down onto concrete!”

I nod as he eyes me in the rearview mirror, as if to feign interest. Truly, I’m just pondering what Frank will be like as the vehicle sputters forward, maneuvering through the streets of downtown Newark. 

_Will he be friendly, at least? At least possibly as friendly as he seemed over Facebook messenger?_

I suppose I won’t have to speculate for much longer: “Hey buddy, is this the place?” The Uber driver has his gaze fixed at me through the rearview mirror once more. He’s raising his left hand from the steering wheel, gesturing to the building adjacent to the driver’s side of the car. He sounds a bit irritated—maybe he’s caught my bluff, sensing my total lack of attentiveness to his chattering.

“Yeah, this is it,” I respond breathily, reaching to unclick my seatbelt and subsequently grasp the door handle, “thanks, sir.”

The driver grumbles something incoherent as soon as I snap the door shut, speeding away shortly thereafter. 

From where I’m positioned on the sidewalk, the building is exactly as it was in the photograph accompanying Frank’s advertisement. About three stories high and composed mainly of red, weather-worn brick, it’s got a spiraling metal staircase attached to the side of it. At the building’s front is a small patch of sparse grass, which is as much of a “yard” you’ll get in Newark. In any case, the air today is brisk, and the sweater isn’t providing much to keep out the chill, so I will myself to push forward and approach Frank’s door on the first floor.

Number 108. Here it is.

I eyeball the tarnished gold number as I extend my fist to rap on the door, wary of its peeling layer of white paint. A few wayward flakes flutter to the ground as I knock.

Perhaps unceremoniously, the door flies open no sooner than I signal my arrival, and the individual that greets me is _definitely_ not Frank, but someone else I _definitely_ recognize. 

Looming awkwardly before the threshold of the door, I unconsciously shove my frostbitten hands into my pockets. Glancing down at my shoes, I pretend they’re _very interesting_ for a moment, and then shoot my gaze back upwards again. This is, however ineffective, my best attempt at pretending that I have not the faintest idea who the young woman standing in front of me is. This is an unfortunate caveat to Facebook lurking.

She’s shorter than I would have assumed. I just guess everyone is tall, for whatever reason. Her tone is bright, but I still gather that she’s straightforward and is treating this interaction with me as strictly in relation to me doing “business” with her boyfriend.

“Mr. Way, I’m guessing that’s you?” she chirps. “My name is Jamia, I’m Frank’s girlfriend.”

I nod sharply as I slip a hand from my pocket to shake hers, my body still feeling the effects of the wind-whipped environment around me. Apparently “yes” is all I can muster.

“Oh, and just call me Gerard,” I add earnestly as she takes a few steps backwards, propping the door open with her hip. Smiling tightly, she cranes her neck to the side, gesturing for me to follow her lead.

As I pass through the doorway, I’m immediately grateful for the warmth before I can even begin to comprehend my surroundings, my soon-to-be home. Jamia’s got a lead on me; I see her trailing into what I assume is the kitchen, shouting something to me along the way.

I’m about to inquire about Frank and where he is when she provides an answer for that very question herself.

“I’m going to start up a kettle of hot water to make some tea for us, okay?” Jamia calls as I make my way into the kitchen. I stumble into a wooden chair at the table that’s fixed in the center of the room as Jamia busies herself at the stove. “Frank’s not in today, he’s visiting his mother. I hope you don’t mind, but I told him I’d handle the business side of things with you—the poor thing is always so preoccupied with his work.”

I mumble a quick “absolutely” as my eyes scan the table’s contents, picking up on a neat stack of what looks to be paperwork for me. _Well, it’s not like Frank and I will never run into each other, right?_


	6. Frank

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah! Another chapter within a span of days. Y'all have my Thanksgiving break to thank for that.
> 
> I hope those of you in the United States had an enjoyable holiday the other day, and as for everyone else, I hope you had an excellent day in general! As always, thanks for reading and giving me feedback! xoxo

Every time I visit my mother, the immediate thing she does is chide me for not stopping in more often (well, immediately after smothering me with a hug).

Today’s visit is not unlike any of the others. 

I’ve barely gone up half of the steps trailing up to the front door of my mother’s suburban home in Belleville when she bursts out, grinning from ear to ear. I chuckle when I note that she’s got a fleece blanket draped over her shoulders and slippers on her feet. She is frequently one to get cold.

“Frankie!” she cries, outstretching her arms and beckoning for me to come closer. “I’ve missed you so much.”

I willingly step into her embrace as I draw nearer, reveling in her warmth. “I’ve missed you too, Mom.”

★

Typically, when I visit my childhood home, my mother likes to fill the space of conversation around topics like work and Jamia. I can tell she worries about me often, given the nature of my profession. She’s proud, sure, but she thinks it’s “too depressing.”

I’ll counter with statements like, “Well Mom, it gives me fulfillment to help guide folks through their mental health struggles.” 

“As long as you’re happy and living comfortably,” is frequently her reply. But, she’ll never be stripped of that motherly concern; I can see it in the way her eyebrows settle and how she’ll nervously sip her coffee. Same old song and dance.

Or, you know, she’ll prod, “Is that a new tattoo?”

As we eventually settle at the kitchen table, the coffee pot gurgling atop the counter a few feet away, it appears my mother has alternate plans for this afternoon. I allow myself to lean back in my chair, hands folded at my lap. 

“So, this fellow that you’re letting live with you,” she begins, tightening the fleece blanket around her torso, eyes inquisitive.

“What about him?” I raise myself from my chair once more when I notice the coffee’s done brewing—the pot jolts to a stop with a loud _whirr_ , the miniature red light upon the appliance automatically flickering itself off. 

“Tell me about him,” she says, shifting in her seat, “and bring me some sugar packets for my coffee.”

I reach to the cupboard towards the ceiling, opening it with a _creak_. I snatch up two chipped mugs with faded Mickey Mouse designs adorning them—mugs that I _certainly_ remember being in the house since at least the nineties. Settling the pair of mugs on the counter, I subsequently fish around in one of the many jars atop my mother’s kitchen counter for some sugar.

“Well, he’s a bit older than me,” I say, pouring a steaming helping of caffeine into each mug, “his name is Gerard. Recently finished some prestigious graduate program and now works as an archivist for one of the museums in town.”

My mother elicits a soft “hmmm” as I turn around and deliver the cups of coffee to the kitchen table, adorned with its many rings from years of piping hot mugs staining its wooden surface. We don’t even bother with coasters at this point. 

Resting into my chair once more, I chuckle as I eye my mother, twirling my silver spoon around in my mug. “Is that all you have to say?” I joke, raising my mug to take a first sip. I burn my tongue shortly thereafter.

“Well, he certainly sounds smart,” my mother replies, tearing open her sugar packets and dumping them into her beverage, “but what matters is that he’s pleasant to live with and pulls his weight of the deal.”

I swallow and nod affirmatively, sneaker-clad foot tapping unconsciously on the white tiled floor. I’d better not tell my mother that I haven’t actually _met_ Gerard yet. She’d have a heart attack if she knew. That’s one detail she can live without. 

“I suppose you’re right,” I answer.

“I always am.”

★

At roughly eight P.M., after a few hours of visiting with my mother, I ready myself to leave. I don’t have to be at the clinic to punch in for my shift until ten o’clock, and there’s only about ten minutes of separation from Belleville and the city, but there’s a stop I’d like to make in town before I head back to Newark.

I embrace my mother tightly and plant a kiss on her cheek after she tells me to call soon, after she tells me her telephone doesn’t ring nearly enough. (“The only calls I ever get are from your father or from those fucking telemarketers.”) 

As I hop into my car and dial up my radio, peeling out of my mother’s driveway, I watch as she waves from her doorstep, the outdoor lamp affixed to the doorway illuminating her pale face in the twilight.

★

As I traverse through my hometown, all is quiet and solemn and pitch black, save for my car’s headlights and the dim streetlights that make everything awash with a pale glow.

That, the purr of my car’s motor, and an Alice in Chains song on the radio.

Belleville’s a rather sleepy town. Won’t find much open this late, unless you’re looking to go to 7-11.

As I approach my destination, gently toeing the gas pedal, I lower my driver’s side window. I want to see if it’s still there. 

_It is._

I decide to pull over by the nearest curb, willing my ancient Volvo to come to a halt as inaudibly as possible. Belleville High School is situated not far from a cul-de-sac, and I can’t imagine that the neighborhood’s residents would take too kindly to a twenty-something year-old man lurking around the local school’s grounds during the nighttime hours.

I’ve purposefully parked at the rear of the long brick building—as I take a stroll along the perimeter of the school, I come upon what I’ve been looking for. 

Simple and ever the same, the old oak tree that my friends and I would spend many an afternoon lazing around underneath is still here. If there is any God up there in the expanse of the universe, I decide to thank them for the sake of this tree not being sawed down.

In the darkness, I can just faintly make out the tree’s bulky but strong roots, twisting and twirling out from the stump and maneuvering their way into the surrounding ground. The tree extends feet above my head, but some days, when I glanced up at it in awe, it felt more like miles.

In the weeks before summer vacation, when the air became hot enough to smother you and when the cicadas began to sing in the twilight, my friends and I would seek refuge beneath the oak tree’s welcoming arms and sprawling branches, its leaves evergreen. Consistent and sturdy, the tree was a shelter not only from the slick heat of early June, but from the prying eyes of my peers.

Circling my gaze about the tree, I’m hit with memories of time passed beneath it with my friend Jeremy. Jeremy, my best friend. Jeremy, who lent me his first skateboard and taught me how to kickflip. Jeremy, who’d encouraged me to start my first band. Jeremy, who knew perhaps more about me than I did myself.

Jeremy, who I’d exchange hushed whispers with, whispers of words we’d never speak aloud. Jeremy, who was my first kiss. Jeremy, who knew my shame.

Jeremy, who I no longer speak to.

Casting one more cursory glance at the solitary oak, I think it’s time for me to leave.

★

When I arrive at the clinic, there’s only one patient in the entire facility that seems to be awake and conscious. Or, he’s the only patient who could give enough of a damn to run my ear off.

“How’s life, Frank?” he asks, staring upward from his bed. Stretched across his torso is the standard white sheet blanket, but his sock-clad toes are peeking out from its hem. I’d find this rather endearing if this particular patient weren’t such a pain in my ass.

“Just fine, Adam,” I say from my metal folding chair in the corner of his room, clipboard at my lap, “just fine.”

Adam smirks and raises an eyebrow, shifting in his bed. Unceremoniously, he tugs the sheet from his body, revealing the clinic-issued gown he’s wearing. “It’s hot as shit in here,” he moans. “And why do you have a stick up your ass? Not getting laid?”

I want to sigh, scratch that, let out an audible groan, but I care about this job. No snarky twenty year-old is going to spoil my decent pay and benefits for me. I’m tempted to write “is plagued with Insufferable Asshole Syndrome (IAS)” on Adam’s chart. But I don’t, and instead stick to the books, twirling my pen around in my fingers.

“I’m afraid my sex life is none of your business, Adam,” I add in between checking off boxes, offering a sarcastic smile, “sorry to disappoint.”

Adam rolls his eyes and raises his right arm to flip me off. “I’d have a sex life if I weren’t fucking trapped in here.”

“Poor you.”

I chuckle to myself, and as I’m doing so, I ponder for a moment and think that Adam just might be my favorite patient here. 

Not that I’d ever tell him that. His ego doesn’t need to be inflated any more than it already is.


	7. Gerard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo, another chapter. I know this fic is pretty slow-moving so far, but I promise it'll get somewhere soon! (I can't wait for our boys to actually meet.) Thanks for sticking with me, guys. 
> 
> I hope y'all are doing well, and I hope that my fic is adding some kind of entertainment to your days. Writing this has been incredibly fun for me, and it's been super great to read all of your nice words. I hope it's been just as fun to read.
> 
> Enough talking from me - enjoy!

However unwilling he was, I am proud of myself for at the very least enlisting Mikey to help me with the move-in process. He _did_ complain every time he had to tug a box in from the U-Haul, though. My ammunition was just to counter that with, “Keep that up and you won’t be getting any wedding gifts from me.”

It’s the weekend following my meeting with Jamia and my first visit to the apartment, and I’m thoroughly pleased that I was permitted to move in so soon. Frankly, I think Mikey is equally as elated. Alicia, on the other hand, seemed rather teary-eyed as we packed the last of my belongings into the U-Haul. She said she’d sorely miss seeing me sprawled across the sofa.

Now that everything’s been lugged into the apartment, I feel somewhat… strange. And I don’t think it’s because mostly everything is still packed into boxes, because that’s how I’d been living at Mikey’s place, anyways. 

My phone chimes audibly from where it’s resting atop the cardboard box containing all my jeans. Without even picking it up, I glance at the now-lit screen, reading it for a notification. It’s a text from Frank: we’d since graduated from Facebook messenger, and in the past week, I’ve exchanged a slew of messages with both him and Jamia. 

_**Frank:** Hey Gerard, I hope your move-in went well today. Make yourself at home! _

I make a mental note to hit him back later. I figure it’d be rude to not thank him again, although I’d like to think that I’ve already made my gratitude abundant. Can’t hurt to say “thank you” a million times.

“Are you sure you have _everything_?” Mikey asks, his tone laced with a hint of sarcasm. I think he’s alluding to the fact that my stuff is now making the apartment seem a lot fuller than it had previously. 

It’s not _full_ , it’s just _cozy_. 

“I think so,” I sigh, scanning the surroundings of where we’re standing in the bedroom. There’s a queen-sized bed right smack-dab in the middle of the room, and it’s one of the areas that’s thus remained somewhat untouched by Mikey and I. I do have a quilt that I like to use, one that had been made by our grandmother some years ago, but would it be weird to switch that out with the duvet that Frank already has on the bed?

Maybe I’ll just leave both on the bed. It’ll look a little strange, sure, but maybe I’ll leave my quilt on the sofa before I go to work each morning, so Frank doesn’t have to worry about it. 

Okay, maybe I’m being a little bit obsessive. But I don’t want to be overbearing. This is Frank’s apartment, first and foremost.

I’ll just be as respectful as possible of his space. However much is possible in an apartment this small.

★

By the time I get to the museum following my first night in the apartment, I feel like I’m buzzing. Could be the caffeine from the Starbucks I just downed, could be the notion of helping Lindsey with that massively important temporary exhibition today. Or both.

It feels puzzling to me when I walk into the building and don’t instantly make a beeline for the basement, where the archive is housed. Hell, that’d been my routine every single day for roughly the past year. Instead, passing through the throngs of visitors that are already lined up at the admissions desk, I set my sights on the staircase tucked away in the corner of the lobby.

As I ascend the stairs to reach Lindsey’s office, my thoughts run rampant—did I make a mess already during my first night? I know I didn’t, but _did I_? I had to be out of the place by about 8:30 to make it to work by nine and to clear out for Frank, who’d be arriving at ten. 

I felt guilty enough using his shower—which, I suppose, is also _my_ shower now—never mind sleeping in his bed. Although this was all part of the deal. I made a specific point to make good on my promise from move-in day and left my quilt folded neatly on the sofa after waking up. 

I couldn’t help but notice that my quilt definitely had a… different scent to it after just one night, however. Not in a bad way. It actually smelled sort of nice. Musky, but also fresh. Like fancy aftershave. Perplexing that I know what Frank smells like without having _actually_ met him.

I don’t know if I’m being weird. Stop thinking about the quilt, I decide.

All that is of relevance is that I made the bed, washed my breakfast dishes, and hung my damp shower towel to dry on the plastic hooks hanging over the back of the bathroom door. Just like I had barely even been there.

When I come striding into Lindsey’s office, letting myself in, I’m immediately taken aback by the amount of papers she’s got strewn all over her desk. Messy isn’t Lindsey’s style. The scene before me is somewhat reminiscent of my study binge sessions during finals week in college. She must really be hinging on this exhibition. Her door is ajar, propped open with a wooden wedge, and I assume that means I can just stroll right in. 

Funny enough, my coworker hardly stirs as I enter; she’s still hunched right over her desktop, dark eyes boring into the fluorescent screen. When I call her name to signal my arrival, she startles, almost like a frightened bird, bristling. Spinning herself around maybe just a bit _too_ quickly in her swiveling chair to acknowledge me, she’s more reactive than normal. 

“Gerard,” she swallows, looking at me and then her papers. She shuffles some of them to the side hastily, and gestures to her spare chair. “I didn’t notice you coming in. Sorry. I’m a fucking wreck.”

I wave a hand, shaking her off as I place myself in the chair adjacent to hers. I want to empathize with her, say I’ve been there too, maybe offer a personal anecdote as some consolation. But I don’t think that’s what she needs right now.

Lindsey needs for us to get to work.

“Don’t stress, Linds,” I offer. I know Lindsey well enough, I’d say we’re even on the level of being friends, but I feel awkward being thrust into her space. I don’t know what to do with my hands, so I settle for resting one on my lap and the other atop the wooden desk’s surface. “I’m here to help. Besides, what are we even exhibiting?”

“I really do appreciate you taking yourself away from your archival work to lend me a hand, you know,” she says, a clump of black hair falling into her eyes, “You’re a busy person, everyone on the staff knows that.”

I laugh. “Busy or a hermit that spends all of his shifts in the basement?” Lindsey’s frazzled, but I manage to make her elicit a chuckle with that one. I’ll take that as a small victory. 

I continue, “Also, you didn’t answer my question.”

She startles once more, almost as if coming to life. “Oh! Sorry again. We’re gonna be exhibiting some awesome traditional Catholic art—namely pieces depicting the saints.”

“Uh huh.”

“Myself and the rest of the education team already have some cool ideas in the works for programming. But, _I_ _was thinking_ —”

I know it’s coming. I lean back in the chair, awaiting the inevitable. “You were thinking what?”

“I was thinking you could, you know, maybe give a special keynote lecture during opening night. Since you know so much about this stuff. One of the works is a portrait of Joan of Arc.”

I knew it. Lindsey knows me well enough to know that I wrote my thesis about Joan of Arc and the Hundred Years’ War. I can feel myself cringing at the thought. Not because I think I can’t do it, because I do one hundred percent have the historical background. But because I can’t fathom myself speaking for that long in front of God knows how many people. These types of events often tend to draw a sizable crowd, not comprised just of folks from the public, but of respected academics, too.

My love of history and my love of privacy coexist just fine in the archive, thank you very much. But, before I can even ponder this offer for a moment more, the word “yes” is passing my lips without much afterthought at all. Maybe I’m just doing this for Lindsey, or maybe I’m just a sucker who can’t say no.

★

_**Frank:** Hi Gerard! I hope you had a good day at work and are settling in nicely here. I’m about to leave for work, I’m assuming you’re on your way home? _

_**Gerard:** Yeah, I’m on the train right now. Work was stressful, but I’ll live to see another day. And the apartment is great: I feel right at home already! _

_**Frank:** Glad to hear. I can sort of gather that, by the amount of books you’ve already spread throughout the place. (I’m not bitching at you, I promise—tone is weird over text.) _

_**Gerard:** Sorry! Feel free to pick any of them up to read whenever you feel like it. I hope you like history books. Maybe we’ll run into each other at the door? _

★

I do not run into Frank at the door. In fact, it looks like he’s already gone by the time I show up, judging by the door being locked. I can’t ignore the pangs of disappointment that rush through me at this, though.

We’ll meet, for _real real_ , soon. I hope.

Once I’ve got the front door unlocked, signaled by a soft _click,_ I extend an arm through the open doorway and fumble around for the lightswitch. Stepping in and sealing the door behind me, my first priority is to kick off my fancy work shoes and drop the heavy backpack I have slung over one of my shoulders. Its contents include my laptop and several books, so safe to say its weight isn’t doing my back any favors.

I find the apartment nearly as immaculate as I left it, almost as if Frank had never been here. The only indication of his presence is a solitary dish resting on the plastic drying rack next to the kitchen sink.

I had gotten myself some Thai food from the joint down the street on my way home. I felt near-instantaneous regret and uneasiness following the promise I made to Lindsey at work earlier today, so merely the idea of cooking a meal for myself when I returned home sounded overwhelming. 

Plopping into the first chair I see at the kitchen table, I tug my phone out of my back pocket after I tear open my brown paper bag of takeout. The first thing I see is notification after notification for text messages from Mikey and Alicia—the very ones I’d been essentially ignoring all day at work. I’m tempted to leave the messages for tomorrow, but I know no response on my end will only prompt a further onslaught of texts from their direction. 

I punch out a quick reply, something vague about my work day and how I’m doing _just fine_ here, and I dig right into my dinner, not realizing until now that my only sustenance prior had been a bagel. 

Anxiety will do that to you.

As I sit in solitude, the only audible noises being the soft murmuring of the neighbor’s television through the walls and the creaking of the building’s pipes, I take a few moments to scan my surroundings. Move-in was kind of hectic, Mikey and I’s only concerns lying with unloading the U-Haul, so until now, I haven’t had the opportunity to note Frank’s personal touches, save for the turntable and milk crate of records by the sofa.

I spy a tortoiseshell circular clock on the wall across from me. A clock that’s definitely broken, judging by the fact that it’s telling me it’s four o’clock and not seven. Tacked on the wall next to it is a simple picture frame containing a photo of Frank and Jamia.

I can’t help but giggle to myself in between bites—the pair of them seem to have been at a party or club of some sorts when the picture was snapped, judging by the swaths of people behind them. Jamia looks her usual self, bright as ever, but Frank, on the other hand, is as bug-eyed as I’ve ever seen anyone. This glimpse at drunk Frank is an entertaining contrast to the professionalism I’ve seen him present thus far.

Again, like his scent, a bit odd that I now know what he looks like shitfaced without ever having met him in person. 

I choose to shake off those thoughts once more. I feel like I’m being weird. Or maybe it’s just my anxiety getting to me, _again_. I don’t know. 

Polishing off what I can of my dinner, it’s inevitable that I have some left over. The Thai place certainly does _not_ skimp on their portion sizes. Padding over to the counter with the half-empty plastic container in hand, I’m thinking that I’ll just stick it in the fridge and pack it up to reheat at work during my lunch break tomorrow.

Or, maybe, just maybe, I could offer the remainder of my Pad Thai to Frank. It’s the least I could do, you know, as a sign of my gratitude. As if my endless “thank you” texts weren’t enough. I don’t even know if he _likes_ Thai food to begin with. But, no harm done either way, right?

Settling the plastic tub on the counter for a minute, I slide open the drawer to the left of me, the drawer Frank had told me was his “junk” drawer. I fumble around, sorting through paper clips and rubber bands and old receipts, until I locate what I’m looking for. 

I uncap the blue ballpoint pen and jot down a quick note onto a pad of neon pink post-it notes:

_Frank,_

_I had some Thai food for dinner after work and couldn’t finish it all. Maybe my brother was right all these years and I truly am a wimp. Who knows? I also don’t know if Thai food is your type of thing. But anyways, now I’m rambling (can you even ramble in a written note?), but to make a long story short, these leftovers are all yours for the taking if you want them._

_Your new roommate,_

_Gerard_

_P.S. I saw your records in the other room. You like The Cure too, so you must be as much of an emotional wreck as I am. (That was a joke, by the way.) Let’s talk music sometime._

_P.S. (Part 2): Is it weird if I use your shampoo until I can get to the store to buy some more? Thanks._


	8. Frank

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhhh! It's been a while since I've updated this fic, clearly. But, I haven't forgotten about it - don't you guys worry. My personal life got massively busy, in between work and starting my last semester of college. I'm going to try my best to keep updating whenever possible.
> 
> As always, thanks for all the love so far. You guys' feedback really keeps me at it! xoxo

I may or may not be violating some kind of unspoken rule by having conversations with the patients at the clinic. Well, _patient_. Regardless, I think I’ve got to be on some new level of desperation for social interaction if I’m willingly chatting with _Adam_ , of all the patients that are in the facility.

The kid gets on my nerves, but there’s something about his shit-eating grin and snotty one-liners that… _touch me_? Maybe it’s because, in some odd fucking way, he reminds me of myself in high school. When I was an annoying and egotistical little bastard. Or maybe it’s just because he’s the only patient that’s ever awake during the ungodly hours of the night I work.

Tonight, Adam doesn’t hesitate to kick off our interaction with the personal inquiries.

As per usual, he’s got his sheets flung off his lower half, bunched up by his sock-clad feet. Eyebrows knitted together, he turns to me, positioned in my chair in the corner. “So, Frank, you got a girlfriend?”

In between filling out his chart, I sigh, letting out a “yes,” which only launches more and more questions. _Her name is Jamia, she’s twenty-four, we met in high school, and no, Adam, I am not telling you about how hot she is._

“Come on, Frank, I’m a deprived man.”

“Not a chance.”

★

Ray Toro is a no-bullshit kind of guy. Ray Toro does not tolerate shenanigans. And he’ll be the first to tell me so, even when there’s a needle drilling into my flesh.

It’s the weekend again, and I’d invited him to tag along to my tattoo appointment. He’d readily accepted, and while I’d been excited to include him in one of my hobbies, I’m starting to regret that. I love Ray Toro, but right now, he’s sounding eerily like my mother.

From where my head’s cocked to the side as I’m splayed out across the tattoo artist’s table, I can make direct eye contact with my friend as he’s seated in a little folding chair just a few feet away. With every little buzz of the tattoo gun, he seems to grimace a bit. 

“ _What do you_ _mean_ you haven’t even met your own roommate yet?”

Like I said, Ray Toro does not tolerate bullshit or shenanigans.

“I mean, we’ve texted,” I answer, blinking. God, I feel stupid. Partially because I know the situation sounds sketchy as fuck when I explain it out loud, partially because I know I look like a fish out of water at the current moment, shirtless with my limbs spread all over the place. Like Ray, I grimace too, but not necessarily because of the stinging pain of the needle punching through my skin.

“Okay, but texting doesn’t mean shit.” Ray shakes his head, his curls following in the same motion. “Have you at least had a phone call? FaceTime? What if he’s some crazy murderer?”

“That’s exactly what Jamia said.”

My tattoo artist, meanwhile, is seemingly paying no mind to Ray and I’s conversation. I mean, from how I’m positioned, it’s not like I can see her face and/or potential reactions to my statements, but she’s thus remained silent. The only notice of her presence is the steady, humming _bzzzzzzzz_ of her tattoo gun as she works away at the side of my torso.

Ray pauses following my statement. As he does so, I remember that throughout the past week, Gerard’s been making an active effort to communicate with me more frequently. Not just through text, but with… _post-it notes_? Neon pink post-it notes, affixed to random spots throughout the apartment, filled with extensive ramblings jotted down in blue ink (or sometimes in black Sharpie). The first one was to notify me that I could dig into his leftovers from the other night (which I did heartily), but since, he’s left me random little messages to update me about his life and how his days have been going. 

Like, for example, I’ve learned that he has a younger brother named Mikey who’s getting married soon, and how he’s going to be the best man. That other than history books, he has a soft spot for Stephen King. That he’d love to visit the fucking International Cryptozoology Museum in Portland, Maine someday. Another post-it note, stuck to the bedroom door, told me that he was drafting a lecture to give at the museum he works at for some special exhibition or something, which I found impressive.

I’ve been leaving responses of my own to his notes, sometimes written on the backside of the same little pink sheet. Arguably, my responses are far more brief than his, but nonetheless, it’s pleasant in the same way that texting is. Except that with post-it notes, you don’t get that same instant gratification. In some strange fucking way, Gerard has managed to make me anticipate coming home to post-it notes after my shifts.

Even though I don’t have a clue what his voice sounds like.

The tattoo artist hits a sensitive area of skin, and I wince.

Ray pipes up again. “I mean, she’s not wrong.”

I bring my line of sight back to Ray’s once more, seemingly all-knowing and shit, and somehow, I think he’s aware that that wasn’t what I wanted to hear.

★

_**Gerard:** Hey Frank! I hope you’re having a wonderful weekend! Nice new tattoo. _

_**Frank:** Wait a minute… how did you know I got a tattoo? First you’re some cool reclusive history expert, now you’re a wizard, too? _

_**Gerard:** You posted a pic of it on Facebook. Dummy. (And no. I’m not a wizard. Unless we’re talking D&D.) _

_**Gerard:** Wait. Before I go, did you happen to borrow one of my Joan of Arc books? It’s cool if you did, but I’m in the finishing stages of drafting my lecture. _

_**Frank:** Oops. Yeah, I totally did. I sort of wanted to at least have a little background before your lecture so I wouldn’t be entirely lost. _

_**Gerard:** Wait, you’re coming? How sweet. Just don’t forget that book at Jamia’s this weekend. Tell her hello from me. _

★

Being at Jamia’s place during the weekends has started to feel _different_. Not bad, necessarily, but just different.

Right now, we’re curled up on her black leather sofa with the lights flicked off, the only illumination in the room coming from the fluorescent glow of the television screen just before us. On said television screen, a crazed Jack Nicholson is attempting to hack Shelley Duvall to bits with an axe. This is approximately the eighth time we’ve watched _The Shining_ together, and the thousandth time we’ve resorted to a movie we’ve both already seen due to indecisiveness on both our parts.

The freshly-tattooed side of my torso is still ripe with pain, so I’m being _extra_ careful to not place any pressure on it. I’m leaning into Jamia a bit, my nose buried in her hair, attentive to every time she shifts in place or hitches her breath. 

I’m so attentive, even, that my phone vibrating in the back pocket of my jeans makes me jolt, my head snapping upwards—I’m shocked (but grateful) that I don’t headbutt my girlfriend as I do so.

As I move to grab around for my phone, raising myself off the sofa slightly and disentangling myself from Jamia, I feel like I almost hear her murmur something along the lines of “what is it?” Anything she’s said, however, is ultimately muffled by the amplified sounds of pitchy strings and Jack Nicholson bellowing “Here’s Johnny!” from the television’s speakers.

Raising my phone to my line of vision, squinting to adjust to the new brightness in the enveloping darkness of Jamia’s living room, I can’t help but wonder who in God’s name would be blowing up my texts this late at night. My mother hardly uses her cell phone, and Ray’s never the guy to send message after message in such rapid succession ( _that is_ , unless he’s wasted).

Sliding my pointer finger across my touchscreen, I sigh perhaps out of relief when I realize that it’s Gerard. I figured he’d be in bed by now though, what with how early he normally clocks in at work. I dart my gaze up to the little white numerals bearing the time at the very top of my phone screen: eleven o’clock.

_**Gerard:** AHHHHHH _

_**Gerard:** FRANK _

_**Gerard:** IM SO SORRY _

_**Gerard:** CAN I CALL YOU???? _

Whatever he’s rambling about, I really hope it’s nothing _bad_ —I can stomach “I just puked all over the bathroom because I ate one too many slices of Domino's pizza” bad, but not “Some weirdo just broke into our apartment and ransacked the place” bad.

Sighing once again, certainly _not_ out of relief this time, Jamia hardly stirs as I excuse myself to her kitchen, Shelley Duvall’s screams accompanying me on my way out.

★

The kitchen, like the living room, is blindingly dark, save for the dim nightlight plugged into an outlet by the refrigerator. When Jamia switches all the lights out at night, she really, truly means _all_ of them. 

Padding around the kitchen aimlessly, I wait for Gerard to call, and rather unceremoniously, I ram my side (my _tattooed_ side, that is) into the corner of one of the counters just as my phone begins to ring. I’m still wincing at the searing pain when I tap the green button to accept the call, immediately putting the audio on speaker.

I’m doubled over a bit, now crouched on the tile floor, one arm tightly held against my side in an attempt to quell the stinging, but Gerard doesn’t need to know that. Not at all.

“Hello?” I manage, allowing myself one sharp gulp of breath in through my mouth.

I’m especially cautious to not be too breathy, as to not reveal that I’ve just injured myself as a result of being a clumsy jackass, but my worries are evidently in vain, as the voice on the other end of the line is equally as (if not more) ragged.

“Frank,” Gerard starts, seemingly a bit hesitantly, “I’m so sorry.”

I pause and swallow, shifting on my feet as I continue to crouch on the floor. My toes are beginning to feel rather numb, signaled to me by the pins and needles, likely from settling my weight upon them for a bit too long.

I can hear Gerard’s voice clearly, despite it being hushed. For the first time hearing it aloud, I’m not entirely sure it’s what I expected it to sound like. Not super deep, but not really high either—a nice happy medium, I suppose. Pleasant to the ear, even.

 _Okay._ I decide it might be a little strange to think such a thing about my roommate’s _voice_. I instantly cut off _that_ train of thought and murmur a response back into the phone’s receiver. 

“Sorry for what?”

“Okay, so I turned off that cool antique lamp you have in the living room, and then I tried to turn it back on again, but it _didn’t fucking work_ , and now I’m panicking, because I think I might’ve broken some cool vintage lamp that’s probably worth some solid cash, or maybe it’s a prized family heirloom—”

Gerard’s practically unloading on me, his entire statement being the run-on sentence from hell, but I can’t help but let myself chuckle lightly as he does so. The laughing is hurting me, really, given the fact that I’m still hunched over and nursing my throbbing torso, but I genuinely can’t stop myself.

“Gerard—” I start again, catching my breath in between giggles, before being interrupted.

“What’s so funny? I thought you’d be totally berating me by now.”

“Gerard. Gee. The lamp isn’t broken. It’s just old as shit and does that every once in a while. Try unplugging it and plugging it back in.”

“ _Ohhhhhhh_.”

Then, for a moment, silence.

“Did you just call me _Gee_ , by the way? We’ve yet to meet in person and you’re already giving me a fucking nickname?”

“Yeah, sure. I guess I am.”


	9. Gerard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah! You guys are lucky this week, I guess - a quiet first week of classes meant I had more time to write, so this is the second update you're getting in a few days. 
> 
> Hold onto your hats, folks. Things are starting to get reaaaaaal interesting. 
> 
> Thanks and enjoy! :-) xoxo

If teenage Gerard could only see me now, laying out dress pants and a tie neatly on my bed while listening to my stranger/roommate’s record collection. Life really is fucking strange.

It’s the day of my big lecture, and there really aren’t words for what I’m feeling and experiencing right now. Yeah, sure, I _was_ a history major who wrote an astronomical amount of papers and who should _hypothetically_ have an exceptional grasp of language, but it’s like I can’t call back upon a single lick of that at the current moment.

What I do possess words for, however, is for how fucking _rough_ this week was. It’s cliched as all hell to call this type of leadup to a big deadline “crunch time,” but maybe Lindsey would’ve _crunched_ me under her boots if I didn’t complete and send off my draft to her in time. Just maybe.

But, countless sleepless nights and crumpled-up Starbucks receipts later, I’ve produced a piece of work that’s at least gotten the stamp of approval from Lindsey and the museum’s higher-ups. That’s all I can ask for in these circumstances, honestly.

The work-related stresses of this past week however fail to mention the anxiety brought upon by _Frank_. He hasn’t done anything aside from being as polite and cheerful as ever—in fact, he’s been leaving me plenty of post-it note messages of his own, checking in with me via text super frequently, et cetera. At this point, I come to expect his messages just as much as I wait for Jamia’s more business-related correspondence.

For some unfathomable reason though, the thought of Frank attending my lecture is somehow even more nerve-wracking than dwelling upon the sheer amount of academics and other museum professionals that’ll likely be there. And that’s not even mentioning the concept of actually, truly, tangibly _meeting him_. In the flesh. 

And there’s also, you know, the Antique Lamp Incident from this past weekend, during which I flawlessly managed to make myself look like the biggest dipshit this side of Jersey. (Said lamp, according to Frank, was just something he had bought at a thrift store during his college years for a whopping four dollars.)

I had told Mikey and Alicia about it, and while my brother had simply affirmed my self-appointed dipshit label, Alicia’s response was to ask, “Do you know which Goodwill he shops at?”

Frank’s generosity and courtesy has extended beyond his communication with me, too. He always makes it abundantly clear that he trusts me to use and/or borrow anything in the apartment—he said it was only fair because I granted him full access to my book collection. 

So, naturally, I’ve made it a habit to make extensive use of the turntable and milk crate of records in the living room.

From my first cursory glance upon moving in, I could glean that he was at least into The Cure and some other eighties goth stuff, but it looks like he’s a fan of a lot of hardcore bands, too, the latter of which have been serving as the perfect soundtrack to prepping for my lecture.

Last night, it was Gorilla Biscuits’ _Start Today_ , and currently, it’s the Bad Brains’ self-titled LP. I’ve got the bedroom door propped open slightly with the hefty textbook for the biology class I took during my sophomore year of undergrad and thus neglected to sell back to the university bookstore, and the living room is just nearby enough that I can audibly hear H.R.’s snarling vocals:

_“Hey, we got that P.M.A.!”_

The song’s lyrics about having a “positive mental attitude” should really be enough of a kick in the ass for me today, but really, I don’t even know if the Bad Brains can help with the issue of my stomach jumping up to my throat.

You know, sometimes I _wish_ I would just run into Frank at the door or something. Or that we’d at least have some time in common to hang out together, or whatever. Maybe go get a few drinks—I’m not into drinking myself, but at least I could just sit there with him, nursing a glass of ice water while listening to him tell me about every mundane aspect of his life. Our back-and-forth communication with each other thus far has made me feel that I’ve actually (somehow) met someone I can maybe brand with the label “friend.”

Well, maybe not _yet_. I don’t know how many companionships are developed exclusively through the phone and randomly-placed post-it notes. 

All I know is that I want to _know_ Frank. Like, really know him. I can vividly envision myself perhaps getting something out of this little arrangement we’ve got going on beyond just a cheap place to lay my head at night—a _friend_. Because, _God_ , it only took one breakup to make me realize that the only people I’d really truly connected with in the space of time since my master’s program were Bert and my brother, and _maybe_ Lindsey, who I really only encounter at work.

I don’t know how he’s pulled it off, but Frank has managed to make me find little pink post-it notes endearing. Even the ones stuck on the inside of the toilet seat, reading, “Sorry man, I forgot to restock on TP. You’re only using tissues for the time being.” 

★

Apparently being busy makes me forgetful. So that’s why I’m in the shower, using Frank’s shampoo again, because I’d been far too enveloped in my research to run my own errands like a real, functioning adult. He won’t mind, I think.

Can’t show up to the museum with a head full of stringy, greasy hair.

The bathroom in Frank’s apartment is essentially shoebox-sized, thus making it exceptionally difficult to maneuver around in (I lost count after ten in terms of how many times I’ve knocked an elbow on the sink’s counter). But, the bruises are somehow worth it when the shower pressure is alarmingly (but wonderfully) strong and there’s a tiny little window on the left-hand shower wall, allowing small slivers of natural sunlight to sneak into the white tiled room.

Through the blinds, shreds of orange-hued light illuminate onto the clear shower liner, now splattered with beads of dripping water. It’s not like I can really view all that much out of the window itself, but the shifting shade of the sunlight is indicating to me that it’s likely just about sundown: i.e. seven-thirty is approaching way too fast.

Snatching up Frank’s half-empty plastic shampoo bottle from the metal caddy that’s hanging loosely from the shower head, my thoughts run rampant, envisioning once more everyone that’ll be there tonight. Mikey and Alicia will (contrary to Mikey’s eyerolls and insistence on history being “boring,” Alicia claimed that my brother was _actually_ excited to hear me speak). So will Mom and Dad.

I hope they’re proud of me. One thing I’ll gladly never forget is my mother’s reaction upon receiving my acceptance letter for my graduate program—I’d already been the first in the family to obtain a bachelor’s degree, no less. She’d gotten all bleary-eyed and had stuffed me in her arms, wrapping herself around me securely. I never wanted her to let go.

I can’t help but think that Bert would have been proud of me tonight, too. In undergrad, he’d dutifully offer to proofread my papers, but he’d always claim that they were perfect as is. Behind my desk in my dorm room, he’d throw up his hands and laugh with that wide, toothy grin of his. “No edits needed,” he’d say, “my boyfriend is a goddamn genius.”

Watching the residual shampoo bubble up and accumulate at the drain after rinsing out of my soaked hair, I feel like I’m going to throw up or something, those similar gross feelings from just after the breakup rising in the pit of my stomach again.

 _Whatever_. It’s never a good time to reminisce on this type of shit, much less on a night as crucial as this one.

Extending my reach to the shower’s slick silver handle, I switch it off, waiting for the instantaneous chill to hit my bare skin upon the final few droplets of water leaking out of the shower head. Tossing the shower curtain aside, I feel like I hear something going on just outside the closed bathroom door, but I chalk it up to the neighbors being noisy. It’s not unlike them to have their television dialed up just a little too loud or to have some boisterous guests over, I’ve learned that much. 

There’s no fathomable way it could be Frank, either. It’s the weekend, so he’s either at Jamia’s or his mother’s. I won’t be glimpsing hide or hair of him until it’s time to go to the museum. 

So, yeah, it’s the neighbors. Loud clunking footsteps and the familiar clicky tumbling of a door being unlocked. They’re probably just getting home.

Dripping profusely, I ease myself out of the shower one leg at a time, settling myself onto the plush, navy blue bath mat that’s pushed up against the exposed wall of the tub. Reaching for the towel that I’d previously slung over the curtain rod, I _feel_ like the noises are getting _just a tiny bit_ louder. _Maybe?_

Either the neighbors are stomping around _really fucking noisily_ or I’m just losing it. And I’m going to need all my marbles intact if I’m going to be lecturing tonight, _thank you very much_. 

Just as I’m pondering the possibility of _maybe_ sneaking out of the bathroom and tossing on some gym shorts and a random tee shirt to investigate and, you know, make sure I’m not _fully naked_ , the firmly-shut bathroom door just ahead of me begins to creak open, followed by a slender tattooed arm groping around for the lightswitch.

Frozen in place, slick clumps of hair still dripping water down my warm cheeks, almost all I can think is _thank fucking God I’ve got this towel wrapped around my waist_.

What unexpected circumstances to first meet my roommate.


	10. Frank

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh! Our boys have finally met! I know it took a while to get here, but thanks to you all for being patient and for believing in my story thus far. It makes my little heart so enormously happy. 
> 
> But, hey, things are far from over with this fic—rest assured that there's plenty more where this came from. 
> 
> Thanks again: you all are the absolute best! xoxo
> 
> (And be sure to check the end of the chapter this time for more notes!)

_Shit. Shitshitshit._

I slam the door nearly as instantly as I’d originally inched it open, almost cramming my fingertips in between the door and its frame during the process. Conscience swimming, I’m still attempting to (or, really, failing to) process what just occurred and what I’m currently experiencing.

_Gerard. Roommate Gerard. Roommate Gerard who I’d never met (that is, until now). Naked. Sort of naked. Bare-chested, towel around waist, sopping wet hair._

This could only happen to me, right?

I just needed to run back home, grab something perhaps _a bit nicer_ to wear than my Power Trip hoodie, and be back on my merry way. It was my assumption that Gerard would already be at the museum. 

With the door closed firmly once more, I lean up against its wooden surface, propping my forehead up against it. It’s taking some serious willpower to not just knock my head right through. Eyes half-lidded, I suck in a deep breath and will myself to say _something_.

“Dude, I’m so fucking sorry,” I offer. Pause. “I promise I didn’t see anything.”

Well, that was _sort of_ a lie. There was no real, _actual_ nudity to be seen: just my roommate in his bath towel. Half-naked. Maybe if I imagine he was in a swimsuit instead of a towel I’ll feel better. _Same concept, right?_

Nope.

Gerard then divides up the silence, his response muffled through the sheer density of the door. It sounds vaguely like he’s underwater, each syllable sort of blending into the next.

“Sorry that you had to see that.” For a second following, I think I can hear… laughter? Maybe that’s an indication that he _doesn’t_ want to tear me to shreds? I don’t have a fucking clue. “You know, I’d been sort of anticipating that I’d meet you at the museum a little later into the evening, hopefully wearing more clothes than I am right now.”

I lift my face away from the door’s worn surface gently, dropping my hands to the front pockets of my jeans.

“You weren’t alone in thinking that.”

★

I arrive at the front entrance of the Newark Museum of History with a half-smoked cigarette and a knot in my stomach that has yet to be unraveled. 

Stubbing out my cigarette on the lid of a trash receptacle adjacent to the granite building’s front steps, I’m immediately (if not intimately) aware of how fucking self-conscious I feel. Flocking all around me are people that look infinitely fancier and infinitely smarter than I am, with their jeweled necklaces and absurd wristwatches. In my white button-up and cardigan, I feel like I’ve shown up to a red carpet event in pajamas.

“Who d’you think these people are? Art collectors?”

“Yeah. Sure. If these folks can afford fancy watches, then they can certainly drop a few grand on priceless pieces of art and not have their wallets cry from it.”

Ray’s in tow, and that alone is assisting in making me feel a _tiny_ bit better. Jamia would have been my date tonight, but she had a work shift that she simply couldn’t afford to miss—like me, she makes a living in a medical-related field, as a nursing assistant at an assisted living home for the elderly (“If I don’t show tonight and let her blather on to me about the most recent episode of _The Price is Right_ , Joanne’ll flip”).

So, instead, here I am with Ray _as my date_. Picking at the collar of his own button-down, Ray eyes the museum’s towering staircase before returning a quizzical glance to me. With the next set of words to leave his mouth, I can gather that he’s thinking much of the same things that I am. 

“What an odd couple we are.”

I snort, maybe a bit too loudly, and shortly following, we hesitantly begin our ascent up to the museum’s front door, my stomach twitching with every step upwards. Flanked on either side by even more ornately-dressed individuals, I realize that I’m going to have to get accustomed to being absolutely beset by these people for the remainder of the night.

For a split second, I very nearly feel like I miss Adam at the clinic.

Once we approach the lobby of the museum upon stepping into the threshold of the building’s interior, I’m instantly sort of overstimulated. More people followed by _more people_. At least Ray’s tall enough that I won’t get entirely lost—a true life raft in a sea of what’ll more than likely be nausea-inducing. 

If it weren’t for the sheer number of people occupying the lobby, it’d actually be fairly spacious, I think. Centered in the middle of the glossy marble tiled floor is the admissions desk, fashioned from a rich dark brown wood, adorned at the top with a banner reading, **“SPECIAL EXHIBITION - _In saecula saeculorum_ : Roman Catholic Art of the Late Middle Ages,”** in thick black text. Positioned at the front of the desk, propped up by an easel, is a white posterboard sign covered with arrows, providing instructions on how to locate the museum’s various galleries and the auditorium in which Gerard’s lecture will be given.

Around the lobby, too, are several more banners, pinned to walls and pillars as far as the eye can see. Each contains a reproduction of a unique piece of religious art, depicting scenes that’d been drilled into my head during Sunday school as a child—the annunciation, the crucifixion of Christ, so on and so forth. Even more of the images, however, are of the saints. I find myself pondering just how many separate ways there exist to paint the same thing, the same people.

The largest banner, affixed to the room’s central pillar, includes a portrait of a pale young woman who is presumably Joan of Arc, dressed in shining silver armor, a long sword in one hand, a billowing flag brandished in the other. 

I look at her, and my stomach does something crazy again, causing me to bristle. I feel myself scowl without really intending to. _Joan, you’re not really doing much to help me out here._

Spotting something perhaps less anxiety-inducing out of the corner of my eye in the far left corner of the room, I nudge Ray, who’s thus far been kind of spacing out maybe in an attempt to purely _take it all in_ , with my elbow. Spurring on a dazed reaction from him, I raise my hand and jab a finger towards the target of my line of sight.

“Refreshments?” I suggest, already spying what looks to be pitchers full of punch and lemonade sitting atop a folding table.

Ray, tucking a few loose curls behind his ears somewhat nervously, just smiles and nods. Picking at his shirt collar once more, he replies just as quickly as I make my proposal. “I think you’ve read my mind.”

★

It’s nearly time for Gerard’s keynote lecture to commence and I am pleasantly tipsy. Not completely fucking toasted, but I’ve got enough booze in my system to help me feel considerably looser. 

I’d had no clue that alcohol would be served tonight, so suffice to say I was wholly grateful when the attendant stationed by the refreshments asked if I’d wanted to add some liquor to my punch. Half-traumatized by walking in on my almost-naked roommate a few hours earlier and all too fucking eager to soothe my nerves, I managed to snag my ID out of my wallet in record time. 

By this point, a significant majority of the museum’s occupants have shuffled into the impressively sized auditorium, save for who I assume are employees, dashing around the hallways, hands full of neatly-folded pamphlets and brochures and other paperwork. No sign of Gerard thus far, though.

Tucked into the second aisle of seats from the stage, my stomach is gurgling. I’m arguably far less tense, given the all-encompassing warmth that my semi-drunken state is providing me with, but my stomach is probably at least a little bit angry that I didn’t pair my drink with something to nibble on. Ray, on the other hand, was purely thrilled at the prospect of the spread of snacks we had available to us out in the lobby. He’s since demolished two immaculately-frosted chocolate cupcakes, and I’m fairly certain that he’s tucked one of the individually-wrapped brownies away into the pocket of his dress pants.

Staring at the image of Joan of Arc that’s now projected onto the screen at the back wall of the stage, serving as one of the few illuminating sources of light in the dim auditorium, this still doesn’t quite feel _real_. 

I’ve now _met_ Gerard, okay, yeah. But what a perplexing jump to make all in the matter of one evening: first, I meet him in his bath towel, shortly following, I’m preparing to see him do what he does best in front of no fewer than two hundred people.

I allow myself to slump further back into my seat, unencumbered by the fact that I might look “improper” in front of the art collectors. Placing my hands on my lap, I turn to Ray on my left, who I can just barely make out in the low light. 

“Frank,” he starts, bringing his hands together, “color me surprised. I guess your roommate really must be pretty damn smart if this many people are willing to come hear him speak.”

I feel the corners of my lips curl upwards rather unconsciously. What am I feeling… _pride?_ I mean, this is all pretty damn cool. Gerard’s yet to step onstage and part of me deep down feels like it’s already rooting for him, like an aggressive soccer mom on the sidelines of her kid’s youth league game. 

I look at Ray, and then back at Joan, who’s still projected onto the screen. Chuckling softly amid the murmuring of the rest of the crowd, I reply, “Oh, don’t kiss my ass like that, man. You’re just stoked on the free food.”

Following my statement, I make it a point to mouth an apologetic “I’m kidding,” which earns me a subsequent flick on the upper arm from Ray. Directly ahead of us, in the next aisle up of seats, a rather young-looking guy with thick-rimmed glasses and a weirdly familiar pointy nose turns around to face our general direction, and I swear I see him arch an eyebrow at us. 

I can’t be too certain about that though, because no sooner than that, he whips himself back around to turn to the dark-haired woman seated next to him. _Weird_.

I’m about to ponder this further, because Ray seems to have noticed the possible interaction too, but again, my train of thought is cut off by a further dimming of the lights to near-total blackness and the hushing of voices all around me, everyone’s necks craning to take a look at the two individuals taking to the stage.

Gerard, dressed in a white shirt and a slim black tie and _far more clothes than I saw him in at the apartment_ , is accompanied by a black-haired woman who shockingly has a colorful sleeve of tattoos on full display. The pair of them, almost huddled together by the sole podium in the center of the stage, share what I can only assume is a knowing look before turning to the crowd in unison. I watch as Gerard gently settles a neatly-stapled stack of papers atop the podium and the woman with him inches herself closer to the microphone that’s protruding out from it. 

“Good evening, everyone,” she starts in a confident voice, pausing to clear her throat, “my name is Lindsey Ballato, and I work as one of the museum’s education coordinators. It’s my absolute _pleasure_ to welcome you all to the opening night of our new temporary exhibition: ‘ _In saecula saeculorum_ : Roman Catholic Art of the Late Middle Ages.’”

Applause from the crowd: I follow suit, and so does Ray. From where I’m seated, I can just make out that Gerard’s drumming his fingertips on the surface of the podium rather repetitively, glancing up at Lindsey and back down to his papers like clockwork.

“We here at the Newark Museum of History have been fortunate enough to receive on loan several astonishing pieces of late medieval Catholic art from collections all over the world. The veritable gem of this exhibition, however, is what you see projected before you: this illustration of Joan of Arc that’s been dated to about the fifteenth century.”

Cue from the crowd: _ooooooh. Ahhhhhh._ I shift in my seat, stomach still jumping from the punch I drank, and I feel shaky. I'd hoped that a nice drink would help soothe me, and while it somehow succeeded on that front, I've just become stuck with yet another stomachache. I can only fucking _imagine_ how Gerard feels, with the eyes of hundreds staring back up towards him in a manner near expectant.

Lindsey, by the looks of it, is gearing up to finish her introductory spiel—scooting herself sidelong from the rear of the podium, it appears that she’s aiming to make adequate room for Gerard, who’s running a careful hand through the hair that he’s gelled away from his face. For perhaps the first time since he’s made his entrance, his eyes dart away from the podium and away from Lindsey, and into the swaths of attendees before him.

I want to think he can see me, maybe so I can give him enough of a reassuring look to let him know that _he’s fucking got this_ , but the lights illuminating the stage are blinding and the darkness of the rest of the auditorium is all-enveloping.

“I really want to thank you all for being here and supporting our institution,” Lindsey continues, this time speaking into the microphone from the side of the podium, “but without much more from me, I’d like to turn it over to our amazing archivist for the exhibition’s keynote lecture, an individual who’s intimately familiar with this time period—this entire thing wouldn’t have been possible without him. So, without further ado, I’d like to introduce our very own Mr. Gerard Way!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanna start doing something new in the end notes of my chapters—I've seen a few other writers on AO3 leave fic recommendations, and it's an idea I've totally fell in love with. One of my favorite things about this site over other fanfic websites is purely how supportive and engaging the community is, so I want to be able to spread the love as much as I can.
> 
> This week's fic rec is ["Freudian Slip"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29176308/chapters/71630631) by froglesstoad. It's a super, _super_ new fic with only one chapter that I can already tell is gonna be great. I'd highly recommend checking it out if you're into college AUs: it's also got the unique perspective of being set during the current COVID-19 pandemic.


	11. Gerard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends! Not much to say on my end this time other than "thank you." I know this fic has been and continues to be a real slow burn, but we're finally getting to some real interaction between our boys.
> 
> As always, thanks for all the love, and I hope everyone's having a wonderful year so far! xoxo
> 
> (Random side note: I'm playing around with the idea of maybe making a playlist to accompany this fic. Is that something any of y'all would be interested in? You can also shout out some songs that remind you of this fic if you want!)

The moment I finish giving my lecture, I feel _dazed_ , almost like I’ve completely lost all recollection of the words that had just left my mouth. This is only compounded by the fact that I’m completely _swarmed_ once people begin to filter out of the auditorium and into the lobby and galleries.

I want to feel triumphant and proud, because people are nodding at me and smiling and shouting things like “Good job!” in my general direction as I pass by, but I can’t prevent the tension that begins to seep its way through my head. For once in my life, I’m grateful to eventually catch sight of Mikey.

In a totally non-surprising proceeding of events, he’s situated over by the refreshments table, periodically raising a plastic cup of punch to his lips. Alicia, clad in a black short-sleeved dress, is directly at his side, and so are my parents, my mother’s nose buried in one of the many tri-fold brochures that are stocked at the admissions desk. My brother is the first to notice me approaching, and once I draw nearer, I’m greeted with a prompt pat (well, more of a _slap_ ) on the back.

“Nice job, dude,” he starts, his cup of punch wavering dangerously in his available hand, “I never knew you know so many big words.”

I snort, and want to roll my eyes at that, but by the looks of Alicia at Mikey’s hip, it looks like she’s already got me covered. Meanwhile, my mother’s torn her vision away from her brochure, and she’s completely beaming, my father’s arm casually draped over her shoulders.

My mother, her eyes crinkling, is quick to say, “I’m proud of you, son.” My father just nods affirmatively.

Alicia then pipes up. “So, what’s on deck for the rest of this evening, Gerard?”

I pause, giving myself a moment to think about it, sort of bouncing on my heels. My brain still feels somewhat empty, still reeling from speaking in front of so many people. Now that I think of it, too, my brain is practically _still_ reeling from my chance encounter with Frank earlier. I’d managed to play it off, posed that I found it all funny, but God— _how mortifying_. Poor Frank’s probably traumatized.

I know it’s best not to dwell on it, but that’s what I do. Dwell on things, with my brain incessantly and unnecessarily warning me to some persistent danger that likely doesn’t exist.

I chew on my lip, and begin to tap my foot on the hard marble tiles that lay below my shoes' soles. Turning to face Alicia more properly, I say, “Well, most of the evening is supposed to be dedicated to strolling through the gallery that’s housing the temporary exhibition.”

“But, by the looks of it,” Alicia cranes her neck to angle her view down the corridor at the very far end of the lobby, “it’s probably mobbed.”

“Yeah.”

Following my confirmation of Alicia’s assumption, there’s an awkward, palpable hushed silence amongst my family. If they’re feeling in any way similar to me at the current moment, then they’re probably fucking claustrophobic, cornered in by the sheer amount of bodies in the museum tonight. I wouldn’t blame them—I really don’t think Lindsey, or anyone on the staff for that matter, had anticipated the sheer turnout we’d received. Good for business, bad for your archivist’s anxiety.

Providing a much-needed break in the silence, Mikey slurps up the last of his punch and drops his empty plastic cup into the trash barrel that’s within arm’s reach of him. Nodding and averting his gaze over towards the table full of snacks, he murmurs, “I don’t know about you folks, but I’m going back for more refreshments.”

Feeling rather too overstimulated to shoot the shit with my family, I make the executive decision to follow Mikey’s lead. I don’t drink, but I don’t know—maybe getting something in my stomach, even if that something is just a cookie, will do me some good. Besides, any excuse to accompany my far more sociable brother is a worthwhile one. It’s essentially a “get out of useless small talk free” card.

The moment we arrive at the refreshments table, staffed by one of the caterers the museum hired specially for tonight, my first instinct is to snatch up a paper plate and serve myself exactly what I’d told myself I would. A cookie. But as my hand reaches towards the silver tray of desserts, I’m immediately aware of it knocking into someone else’s wandering fingers, perhaps eyeing for the same chocolate chip cookie I was.

Beginning to look upwards, I feel my mouth begin to form an apology, until I recognize whose fingers I bumped in an instant. Directly across the table from me, paper plate in his own hand, is Frank. When he recognizes _me_ , almost at the same moment I recognize _him_ , he smiles, shaking his head.

“It’s _your_ cookie,” he chuckles, “be my guest. You deserve it, after that lecture you just gave.”

Wasting no time in claiming the cookie for myself, I place it on my plate triumphantly. “Does this cookie also count as an apology for earlier?”

“Oh, fuck you. It was an _accident_.”

It’s then that I realize that our little interaction is causing a traffic jam in the refreshments line, and I think Frank notices too, so the two of us begin to shuffle along. Along the way, I catch sight of Mikey, who’s already nursing his second cup of punch, leaning up against the nearest blank wall. That’s where I set my sights, and Frank just sort of follows, in addition to the curly-haired guy who’d been tailing behind Frank on their side of the refreshments line.

Mikey narrows his eyes from beneath his glasses and takes another hesitant sip from his cup. “You found friends?”

“You could say that,” I say, smiling wryly, gesturing my elbow in Frank’s direction, “this is my roommate, Frank. And this is…”

“My buddy Ray,” Frank finishes for me, settling himself against the wall, stationed a healthy distance away from Mikey. “He’s my date for tonight.”

I look over to Ray, who only shakes his head before speaking up himself. “I’m not going to entertain that with an answer. But, you know, Gerard, your lecture really was cool. Joan of Arc is a badass.”

Mikey looks at Ray and clucks his tongue. “Isn’t it blasphemous or something to call a saint a ‘badass’?”

I snort, unable to help myself with this next one, catching Frank grin in between bites of his cookie out of the corner of my eye. “Says the guy who hasn’t been to church since he was confirmed.” 

Frank then, mouthful of cookie crumbs and all, adds, “I think Joan would be inclined to agree.”

★

I’d told Frank and Ray that I could steal them away from the hustle and bustle of opening night for a moment, that I could maybe show them the archive, that we could somehow talk to each other without the burden of a million other conversations going on within earshot of us in the lobby.

“Sorry, man,” Frank had said, while Ray nodded in agreement, “we gotta dip out. I’d told Ray I’d sit in on practice with his new band and promised Jamia I’d have dinner on her table by the time she gets home from her shift.”

They’d then scurried out of the museum, Ray professing that it’d been nice to meet me and Frank leaving behind a promise that I’d see him again soon. By this point, Mikey, Alicia, and my parents have been long gone, waiting patiently in line to obtain access to the gallery and get a peek at some of the pieces we have on display.

By nine-thirty, only Lindsey, my other coworkers, and I remain, something I consider a bit of a welcome reprieve. Once my family, Frank, and Ray had departed, the gates were essentially open for anyone and everyone to approach me and either offer me praise or ask me questions about my research. I’m not ungrateful for the compliments, not in the slightest—in earnest, I appreciate them and they give me the inkling of an impression that I have the capability to be somewhat successful in this field. 

But, _God_ , they were _one after another after another after another._

I’m sort of venting to Lindsey about this predicament while we help out the caterers, packing the extra baked goods and plastic utensils into boxes marked with blue duct tape. Placing a lid onto one box and hoisting it down off of the refreshments table, Lindsey turns to me.

“I mean, you were pretty impressive,” she says, watching as I shove handfuls of individually-wrapped plastic silverware sets into a box of my own. “But I get it. It can be overwhelming—reminds me of when I had to present at conferences in grad school.”

I manage a smile. “Thanks for being empathetic.”

“Hey. It’s what friends do.”

As I finish off my own box of catering supplies, securing the lid safely in place with some of that blue duct tape, the word “friend” resonates in my ears, quelling some of the tension that’d been in my head since this morning.

★

I return to an empty and dark apartment at roughly ten-thirty, instantly reminded of the fact that I’d neglected to eat lunch today by the low grumbling of my stomach.

Unlocking the front door with a gentle _click_ , I’m actually toying with the possibility of changing out of my fancy clothes _before_ I feed myself, and the temptation is real. I feel _stiff_ , and a pair of sweatpants is calling my name. But I know I’d better cook up something quick first, lest I suffer the consequences of an empty stomach. So, I merely kick off my shoes and hang my jacket onto one of the lone hooks on the wall by the door.

My phone is buzzing repetitively in the pocket of my dress pants, vibrating against my leg, but I tell myself I’ll check it later. Before my family had departed for the evening, Alicia had enthusiastically suggested that she and Mikey take me out to eat somewhere during my lunch break at some point this upcoming week—she wanted to “catch up,” hear about how I’m settling into the new place. (This proposal was accompanied by a snarky “We miss seeing you sleeping on the couch” from Mikey.) So, I’m going out on a limb here and assuming it’s either or both of them, blowing up our family group chat.

Entering the kitchen, I grasp around in the dark for the lightswitch until my fingers eventually graze it. I’m far too tired to cook anything that’ll take up too much prep time, judging by the fact that I keep yawning periodically, so I resolve myself to pop a frozen TV dinner in the microwave. 

My mind is decidedly foggy, and I’m having a difficult time deciphering just _why_. I don’t know if it’s because I’m just tired, or hungry, or still feeling residual nerves from presenting, or still recovering from my weird fucking encounter with Frank earlier. It could very well be a combination of all of them, I think. I don’t want to process much mentally right now—I just want to shove some hot food into my mouth and subsequently crawl under my blankets.

I step towards the refrigerator, still feeling massively groggy, tugging a hand over my gelled hair. (I feel like it looks dumb this way, that it shows off too much of my forehead, but my mother insisted that it looked “handsome.”) My first thought is to straightaway reach for the handle to the freezer, already envisioning the box of frozen mac ‘n’ cheese I’ll likely be greeted with. But, glancing at what’s tacked to the refrigerator with one of those plastic magnet clips, I’m given reason to pause.

It’s another pink post-it note, written out in blue ink, and, by the looks of the penmanship, rather hastily. 

_Hey Gerard,_

_I briefly stopped back here after leaving the museum to A.) grab my hoodie before going back to Jamia’s and B.) write you this note. This is all to say that you did a fucking amazing job tonight, and I’m really fucking proud of you. I don’t know how you do it. Anyways, I’m also really, really sorry for what happened earlier: I thought you’d already left for the museum by that point. I owe you one—anytime you need a favor from me, consider it done._

_Great to finally meet you,_

_Frank ☺_

I stare at the note for a split second before snapping the freezer door open and reaching my arm inside. Frank’s message grounds me back to reality for a moment, as if giving my brain the clarity that it lacked previously. Meeting Frank tonight—meeting him, not counting our surprise bathroom encounter—was really, really nice. His friend, Ray, was pleasant too. I’m hit with warm, fuzzy feelings, thinking about how fucking _cool_ it is that he came to support me while only having known me for about a month.

As I’m closing the freezer again, tearing open the cardboard box that’s holding my mac ‘n’ cheese, the next thoughts that pass my mind are mildly unwarranted, but _fuck_. Earlier this evening, seeing Frank at the museum, his fingers brushing mine at the refreshments table, I couldn’t help but acknowledge that he was good-looking, handsome at that, more so than his Facebook pictures implied. The camera doesn’t do him proper justice. Short black hair, darkly defined eyebrows hanging over his hazel eyes, bits of stubble beginning to show above his upper lip and jawline. Barely-there puncture marks against the pale skin of his face that are suggestive of past nose and lip piercings. A black scorpion tattoo boldly positioned just above his shirt collar.

I need to nip this at the bud. Like, immediately. Frank’s got a girlfriend, one who’s completely lovely and is most definitely perfect for him, and shit, I don’t even know if I’ve entirely processed the whole Bert situation yet.

Tucking the black plastic tub of mac ‘n’ cheese into the microwave and dialing in the cook time, I will myself to shut my mind off, assuring myself that I’ll hide this in the rear of my conscience and deal with it when I need to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy again, folks. Time for another fic rec!
> 
> This week's recommendation is ["Revelations"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23514316/chapters/56391961) by Zepenthia. I've read more Projekt Rev fics than I can possibly count at this point, but this one is probably my favorite of the bunch. The writing is excellent and there's a hearty helping of angst if that's your thing. Go check it out!


	12. Frank

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all you lovely people! Update time again. Not much to say on my end this time other than thank you (as always)!
> 
> I know I don't always reply to comments, but just know I read every single one and they always make my day. I'm super appreciative of you all. <3
> 
> (Random lil side note: Hambone was of course never a member of the Rodneys, but this was just a random liberty I took for the sake of the story.)

_**Jamia ♥:** Frank. _

_**Jamia ♥:** Mind stopping by before you go to work tonight? _

_**Jamia ♥:** I wanna talk about something. _

★

It’s the middle of a considerably long week and I’d woken up at about noon, my eyes still feeling the residual heaviness from working a long volunteer shift for the hotline the night before. A particularly distressed caller had dialed into my line, and while I had at the very least tried to drum up all the crisis intervention skills I had learned in school and job training, a mild sense of panic still crept in upon the moment I thumbed the office landline’s “end call” button.

All calls are entirely anonymous, so it’s not like I could theoretically _find_ the caller and discover if they were actually going to be fine. I’m pretty sure that would constitute a code violation, anyways.

I just want these kids to be _okay_. But my mind consistently veers itself towards the worst possibilities fathomable.

Seeing Jamia’s super vague texts also did nothing to stifle the anxiety that had been looming in the expanses of my conscience. The curtains on the bedroom window drawn and the lights flicked off, my phone’s bright screen had been blinking angrily, projecting onto the blank white ceiling from where it was laid upwards on the nightstand. 

I’m sitting solo in my Volvo now, blinking too. Annoyedly, confusedly; I’m unsure. I’m still parked outside of the building housing Jamia’s apartment, several hours following her first few texts, and I genuinely can’t bring myself to toe the gas pedal to peel out of here. I’m probably taking up residence in some other tenant’s spot, but my brain is decidedly too empty to even really ponder that.

It’s just Jamia and I’s oddly dull conversation from about ten minutes ago playing on a repetitive replay reel in my mind. I’m thinking about how exhausted she’d looked when she’d opened the door for me, how utterly exasperated she seemed to be when she rested her cheek against her pale palm, elbow propped up on her dinner table. How clear her expression was when she’d said the words “I think we should break up.”

Leaning towards the steering wheel, I’m remembering that she’d said that she harbored no hard feelings towards me. I’m remembering that she’d said that she wanted to remain friends despite this all. Beyond her baggy eyes, there lied just a bit of thinly-veiled optimism; I could sense it in the way she gently clapped my shoulder as I shuffled my way back through her apartment and out the door.

I could tell that she was totally fucking spent, too.

 _Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck._ I don’t know how the hell I’m going to gather enough energy to go to work tonight, to go see the patients at the clinic. 

Glancing out my car’s dust-speckled driver’s side window, I survey my surroundings. It’s fucking frigid today—the kind of cold that makes the tips of your ears numb, which I think might be the perfect accompaniment to how shitty today is already turning out to be. Almost every surface in sight is blanketed in the slushy brown remnants of last week’s snowstorm. If, for a moment, I’m grateful for anything, it’s the soft heat that’s emanating from the vents stuck next to the console. My old Volvo’s heating system, however, is no replacement for the cozy warmth provided by the thick quilt Gerard leaves folded on our bed every morning before leaving for work at the museum. He’d initially been leaving it on the sofa as a routine, perhaps not to impose on my space or something, but I can imagine he eventually started to forget or actually stopped caring—either way, I’ve got no complaints.

I make a mental note to figure out what to do about tonight’s work shift when I get back to the apartment. I’m lacking the serious mental acuity to focus on more than one thing at once for the time being. Until then, both my brain and my body are instructing me that it’s about due time for a nap.

Lazily sticking my keys into the ignition, the Volvo’s engine sputtering back to life, I will myself to back out of the blacktop parking lot and navigate back home. 

★

It doesn’t take much internal coaxing to tell myself that I should call out of work tonight. My mind’s all clogged up with an endless stream of questions that’ll likely never be answered, and everything all of a sudden feels so fucking _daunting_. The prospect of dragging myself into the clinic and perhaps guiding another mentally anguished young person through a crisis is not something I’m fully prepared to deal with today, I decide. 

I almost wanted to groan when I arrived back at the apartment and spied the post-it note that Gerard left behind for me on the refrigerator door, pinned with the same magnet clip that had been holding onto the grocery list I scrawled out earlier this week. Written out in bright blue marker (our extensive post-it noting has thus caused all of our Sharpies to dry out), it simply read, “ _Have a good shift at work tonight!_ ” 

It didn’t take me long after that to tuck myself into bed and knock out for a nap. Truthfully, I don’t recall much of what happened beforehand—could be due to the jarring nature of today’s events, could be due to the fact that I’m now at Ray’s place, tossing back beers with a movie we’re hardly paying attention to playing in the background. 

It’s _Interview with the Vampire_. Ray, at my direct right on his vaguely discolored sofa, finishes his own can and gingerly sets it on the coffee table before us. Our usual duo has been upgraded to a trio for the evening, and we’re joined by Hambone, who I haven’t seen a single bit of since our college graduation a handful of years ago. Surprisingly (but amazingly), we’ve seemingly been able to pick up right where we left off as early twenty-somethings, going back and forth about what shows we’d been to since we saw each other last and which member of the Misfits we think we could beat in an arm wrestling competition (“I’ve just got to catch Danzig when he happens to skip out on his workout for the day”). 

Hambone had joined Ray’s new band, the Rodneys, about a week ago, filling out their previously-vacant bassist position. My friends playing music, I guess, had provided the ideal situation for reconnection. That’s how it always was, though—I often find myself nostalgically longing for my college days, when playing shows and promoting and recording your own shit instantly fostered a sense of community like magic. 

I feel old, suddenly, but I know that’s a fucking over-exaggeration. I’m twenty-five, barely an actual adult—at least I feel that way. As much as I rag on people who peaked in high school, I’m beginning to sense that I might just be second-worst: one of those people who peaked in college, who’ll never stop getting wistful once someone mentions their alma mater. 

Hambone, too, is suddenly wistful when Ray asks, “Why, above all other movies in existence, are we watching _Interview with the Vampire_?”

I snort, and Hambone’s expression switches, looking offended for a moment. Turning to glance at both of us in succession, he harrumphs and says, “I guess _some people_ just don’t understand the merits of such a cinematic masterpiece.”

I take another sip of my beer. My inhibitions are clouded, and I think that’s just what the doctor ordered for tonight. “Merits? You mean Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise dressed as sexy eighteenth-century aristocratic vampires?”

On screen, Tom Cruise has Brad Pitt, ruffled shirt collar and all, pinned to the ground, bright red blood leaking from one side of his neck. As Tom Cruise, or, should I say, Lestat, hisses, “I’ve drained you to the point of death,” I think I can catch Ray wince out of the corner of my eye. He’s always been one to be somewhat squeamish: I can specifically recall an occasion during which he got dizzy while watching _Saw_.

Ray, perhaps as a circumstance of this, averts his eyes from the television screen and swallows. “Fine. Have your vampires. But I’m picking the movie next time.”

“That roughly translates to ‘We’ll be watching _The Empire Strikes Back_ for the sixth time,’” I say. At seemingly the same moment, Hambone and I both eyeball the greasy, propped-open pizza box that’s laying on Ray’s coffee table. I snatch up the first slice I see, and Hambone gives me a look, scrunching up his nose. Evidently I’d taken the slice he wanted.

Ray shakes his head. “Yeah. Whatever. You’ve never been one to complain about _Star Wars_ ,” he says matter-of-factly. 

Hambone then takes the subsequent pause in conversation that follows as an opportunity to jump in, mumbling out sentences in between bites of his pizza slice. “You’ve also never been one to complain about shows, Frank,” he starts, jabbing the hand he’s holding his pizza with in my direction. It droops downward rather quickly and I can almost see the oil materialize on its surface layer of melted cheese, dripping to the bottom edges. “Speaking of which… the Rodneys are playing a benefit gig in about a month’s time and we need a merch guy. We’ve gotta get out as many of our demo CDs as possible. Think of it as you repaying your debts for daring to slander Anne Rice’s masterpiece.”

I shrug somewhat noncommittally and polish off the remainder of my pizza, stuffing the last bit of burnt crust into my mouth. Looking to Hambone, and once over to Ray, who’s looking hopeful, I reply, “I just don’t know what work’ll look like, so it’s hard to give a definite answer right now.”

“You know, you _could_ just call out of work like you did tonight,” Ray says.

“Okay, but I called out of work tonight for a valid reason,” I retort. 

“To get drunk and watch shitty vampire movies with your friends?”

“Yeah. Sure. Whatever you guys say.”

★

It’s nearing midnight and I should be at work right now, likely listening to Adam rant about how desperately he wants out of the clinic, but instead, I’m tucked in on Ray’s sofa, an old, pilled fleece blanket thrown over the bottom half of my body. Now that the alcohol’s settled in my body, my mind considerably clearer, and with Hambone having since gone home for the night, those same dreadful feelings from earlier are beginning to bubble to the surface again. My mind is running rampant with thoughts of Jamia, and I’m asking myself _why_ only to dredge up no sufficient answer.

I’m thinking about the framed picture of us on our first New Year’s Eve that’s been hanging on my kitchen wall for _God knows how long_ , and I’m thinking about how I’ll either have to take it down or replace the photo with one of me and my mother or something. I’m thinking about how she’d promised that she still wanted to be friends, about how she’d said she loved me but _just not in that way_ anymore; I’m thinking about how badly I want to stay in connection too but how fucking impossible that seems at the current moment.

I’m thinking about how I’ll have to manage Gerard’s monthly rent payments all of a sudden now, but that appears to be the least of my issues. 

My eyes feel super strained as I stare at my bright phone screen in the dark murkiness of Ray’s living room, and Gerard is sending me memes over text. And they’re not in the least bit funny at that. What’s funnier, in comparison, are his childishly pure attempts at making me feel better. I’d punched out a quick text to him updating him about the Jamia situation, and while I’d been expecting to doze right off immediately after I sent it, he’s since kept me up for at least an additional twenty minutes.

_**Gerard:** Funny, right? I saw that on Facebook. _

_God, he’s worse than my mother when it comes to this shit._ I won’t be taken aback in the slightest if a minion meme is what comes from him next. I almost want to laugh in spite of it.

It’s odd to consider that this is the same guy who delivered a graduate-level lecture in front of an auditorium full of professionals only days ago. As I’m starting to pick up, it seems that Gerard very deliberately delineates his work persona and his real-life personality. It’s like he has an on-and-off switch or something.

And I’ve barely begun to type out a response when he’s sending me another text, in rapid succession following the last one.

_**Gerard:** Random question: now that you’re no longer dating Jamia, what does this mean for our living situation? Since, you know, I’m assuming you won’t be at her place on the weekends anymore. _

_Shit._ That hadn’t yet crossed my mind all day. Well, sort of. I’d asked Ray if I could crash at his place tonight for the express purpose of not bothering Gerard and being in the apartment when he would be, when he’d probably be itching to rest after work. But I hadn’t necessarily worked out the kinks in my mind yet in terms of what to do about the weekends.

I chew on my lip and ponder this dilemma for a moment before tapping out a reply. 

_**Frank:** I mean, I don’t mind sleeping on the couch. Or crashing at my mother’s back in Belleville. She’s always practically begging me to visit her more often. _

_**Gerard:** Dude. _

_**Gerard:** It’s your apartment. You’re not sleeping on the couch. _

I’m not sure what that’s meant to imply, but I quickly toss that bit of confusion aside, ignoring the strange and sudden jumpiness of my stomach. Grabbing for the fleece blanket and tugging it closer to my chest, I think I can hear Ray shuffling around in the kitchen just down the hallway. The guy can’t tiptoe to save his life—that was the one caveat to rooming with him in college. 

Ray’s stomping provides enough of a distraction for a minute, but by the time his footsteps grow fainter, I’m forced to turn back to my phone. Running my thumb gently across the device’s back, I’m giving my best effort to genuinely think up a solution, but maybe my brain’s too fucking fried after the day I’ve had. The whole concept of having someone move in with me initially rode on the fact that I would practically live with Jamia on my off days. Not only has the breakup effectively drained me emotionally, but it’s thrown a wrench into this other sphere of my life.

_**Frank:** We’ll figure it out. I know we will. I’ll buy another mattress if I have to. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for another fic rec! Recently I've started reading ["The Past Ain't Through With You"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28619385/chapters/70145817) by myrmidonqueen. In this one, Gerard and Frank are both high school teachers, and even though there's only six chapters so far, there's already such a great dynamic established between the two of them. I highly recommend it - the writing's great and I love that it's a "different" type of high school AU in that they're not students.


	13. Gerard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! This chapter is a bit longer, and I think that might be the trend from here on out as more stuff starts to happen. So, enjoy!
> 
> Also, while I'm here, if any of you would like to get in touch with me in a way that's not AO3 comments, my Tumblr is infernalfields. If you've got any questions or suggestions for the fic I'd love to hear them!
> 
> Lots of love and happy reading! xoxo

The week following my lecture breezed past without much circumstance. While I’d made a substantial amount of new connections as a result of it (I think it was the catalyst for the most activity I’d ever seen on my LinkedIn profile), I was still able to return to the kind of professional normalcy I’d found myself craving throughout the rigorous preparation process. I’d worn far more hats than I was ever used to in order to make sure that opening night for the temporary exhibition went off without a hitch. 

I’d found myself missing the archive, though, and being able to resume my usual work on the Monday morning following really allowed me to _breathe_ again. The dim light, the uncomfortable wooden chairs, the unmistakably rich scent of old, yellowing papers—how I’d longed for them. Above all else, however, I’d relished in the return to almost-total privacy. I don’t consider myself particularly antisocial, if anything, I often enjoy the company of others. It’s just that I really, _really_ dislike feeling like all eyes are on me—naked and scathing. Judging.

In the quiet solitude of the archive, there’s hardly ever anybody else present to have their eyes on me. On occasion another member of the museum’s staff will descend down the staircase to stop in, even rarer is when students or scholars will request access to come by and look at some of what we hold in our collections. But even during those times, slim attention is ever directed to me unless there’s a question to be answered—all eyes are on the past and its physical remnants.

It’s Friday now, and I’d gotten so deeply enveloped back into my archival work that I’d almost forgotten that I’d made prior plans with Mikey and Alicia to meet up for lunch. If it weren’t for Mikey’s texts from this morning, it likely would’ve slipped my mind altogether. Once I really hone my focus in on something, especially work, it’s like everything else in my mind dissipates for the time being. Call it tunnel vision, I guess. 

I’m gently patting at the front pocket of my dress pants absentmindedly to make sure I’ve got my wallet with me when I step in past the front entrance doors of the little cafe that’s right around the corner from the museum. I’m greeted immediately by the intensely distinguishable smell of both coffee brewing and fresh bread baking, and my mouth waters in direct response. Almost instantly, too, I catch sight of Mikey and Alicia seated together at a small round table in the far left corner of the cafe’s dining room, a solitary unoccupied chair positioned on the side of the table opposite of them. Locating my wallet, I raise one hand up to wave, and the two of them nod, nearly in unison. Alicia smiles in my direction.

Before I go to sit with my brother and his fiancée, I decide to go up to the counter and place my order. One thing I know for certain is that I need a coffee fix, stat. So, I order my usual—a hot coffee with heavy cream and light sugar—and select the first sandwich off the chalk menu board spread across the walls behind the counter that sounds somewhat good. I tug my wallet out of my pocket and pay, and the young-looking cashier behind the counter murmurs a “thank you” and hands me one of those long silver card holders to place atop the table.

As I approach Mikey and Alicia at the table they’ve already claimed, I place the card holder onto the tabletop and ease myself into the open chair. Shrugging off my jacket, I look towards the both of them—they look fucking _exhausted_. With Alicia, I truly can’t tell, what with the dark eyeliner encircling her eyes, but Mikey’s are visibly droopy. He’s nursing a steaming mug of coffee of his own, taking sip after sip in rapid succession.

“Long night?” I ask, drumming my fingertips on the table’s surface.

Mikey nods, looking to Alicia at his side and then back to me. “More like a _long day_.”

“Wedding planning is a real ass-kicker,” Alicia adds, nodding. 

At this, Mikey shakes his head, some semblance of a smile playing on his lips. He reaches to the hand Alicia’s got laying on the table, and he gently runs his fingers across it. “Yeah, tell me about it,” he laughs, “you got to play dress-up all day while I spent the entirety of mine on phone calls with at least five different caterers.”

Alicia scrunches up her nose. “Hey. The search for the perfect wedding dress is no laughing matter,” she starts, “especially not for your mother. She’d cried at the bridal boutique the very moment I came out of the fitting room in the first dress I’d tried on.”

There’s then a significant pause in conversation spurred on by an employee bringing a tray full of plates and drinks to our table, exchanging them for the tall card holders that had been placed in front of each of us. I can see that Mikey and Alicia are as hungry as I am, because at the very moment the employee departs, the both of them are tearing into their helpings of food. I, for one, am grateful for the hot beverage that’s given to me. I take a hearty sip, needing the caffeine more than I’d anticipated I would. 

In between sips of coffee and bites of my sandwich, I make an effort to resume the conversation that’d been cut short moments ago. Grinning, I say, “You two are making me thankful that _I’m_ not the one getting married.”

Mikey sticks his fork into his bowl of salad and stuffs a bunch of leafy greens into his mouth. “Don’t worry, your day will come.”

I snort louder than I intend to and shift in my seat. “Yeah, who knows when.”

“You never know,” Alicia interjects, her expression turning thoughtful. I almost want to gag.

My comment was in jest, largely because the pure idea of marriage at this current point in my life seems fruitless. Maybe the abrupt end of my long-term relationship with Bert had left a sour taste in my mouth, but notwithstanding, getting married in my twenties was never something I’d wanted, anyways. Bert and I had maybe discussed the concept with each other _once_ , but it definitely wasn’t serious in tone. We’d been together for quite some time, and I’d posit that things were certainly pretty serious between us but… I don’t know. It’s supremely baffling to me that Mikey had pulled the trigger and made such a momentous decision so young. 

Perhaps I’ve just come to value my career and my professional achievement more at this point. That’d come first, romantic relationships could play second fiddle. 

“Yeah, no thanks,” I reply, grabbing for my sandwich. “I’m not ready to totally sign my life away to some other person just yet.”

Mikey’s next response is set in the tone that I know he normally utilizes when he wants to convey that what he’s saying is a joke. “Sounds like someone’s still bitter over their breakup.”

Alicia rolls her eyes. I know my brother well enough to know that he’s just fucking with me, but there’s no denying the effect his statement has on me as I shift uncomfortably in my seat. I raise my half-empty mug of coffee to my lips and peer down into it before mumbling a response.

“I’m over it.”

“I believe you, Gee,” Alicia adds. I may not be as convinced as she is. “Anyways, have you thought about dating again? Maybe you should download Tinder or something?”

I want to gag. _Again._ I don’t think I’m ready to date again yet, and I’m not looking for casual hookups right now, either. I’m not in the right frame of mind for that. Online dating also just sounds fucking _rough_ , if what Lindsey’s told me about her personal experiences are anything to judge from.

One thing I am ready for, however, is for this topic of conversation to shift. If I were looking forward to discussing anything during my lunch hour, it wouldn’t be my practically nonexistent love life. I grab for the last bits of my sandwich and chew on it thoughtfully.

“Maybe,” is all I give Alicia in return for her suggestions. Eager to turn to something else, I glance back to Mikey, who’s scraping his fork around in his salad bowl, gathering up the last bits of lettuce that are sticking to the dish’s sides. I look him in the eyes, more hesitantly than I think is needed to communicate my earnestness. “So, Mikey, how’s planning for your bachelor party going? Anything your best man can help you with?”

★

_**Mikey:** You paid for your own lunch. _

_**Mikey:** It was supposed to be our treat. _

_**Mikey:** Let me Venmo you, asshole. _

★

The remaining hours of the work day sort of flew by, namely due to the sheer amount of new acquisitions the museum needed to be catalogued into the online database. I find that my shifts are less prone to dragging on when there’s suddenly a large influx of work to be done—I get into a smooth rhythm, and often it’s time to clock out before I even know it. Today just happened to be one of those days.

By the time I board my train to get home, my eyes are shot as a result of staring at both my laptop screen and old twentieth-century newspapers—some woman had donated a towering stack of them—all day long. The bright lights of the station surrounding me are sort of hazy, and as I peek out the train’s window as Newark speeds by, everything looks sort of splotchy, almost like an Impressionist painting composed of muted colors contrasting with vibrant ones. I should be giving my eyeballs a break after the day I’ve had, but I can’t help but keep them centered on my phone screen, held just above my lap. Feeling a little ashamed of myself, I’d actually heeded Alicia’s advice and downloaded the Tinder app, although I haven’t yet set up a profile. I can already sense myself regretting this. I’m also texting back and forth with Frank, who’s about to head off to work for the night.

I’d be lying to myself if I said I wasn’t at all concerned about him. Him and Jamia had practically just ended things, and from what I understand, they’d been together for quite some time. The wound’s probably still fresh, and if anything, I empathize with that more than he likely even is cognizant of. 

The man seated directly across the aisle from me coughs, a single sound strangled out amid the deep silence of the train car, and that pulls me from my phone for a moment. For a Friday evening, Newark seems mostly sleepy, almost as if everyone’s just on autopilot, waiting to be swept home and lulled into unconsciousness.

I switch my gaze back to my phone, and its screen blinks suddenly, signaling an incoming message from Frank. 

_**Frank:** I can imagine that I’m probably going to be too tired after tonight’s shift to drive the extra few miles to Belleville. I think I’m gonna crash at our place, if that’s fine with you. _

My eyes scan across Frank’s message and my thoughts are cast back to our conversation from a few nights ago. I’m fairly certain he’d spent the night at Ray’s or something, because he’d told me that he’d called out of work sick for the night—not that I would’ve minded if he came home or anything. The whole one-bed aspect of the apartment didn’t seem like it’d pose any issues when I’d first moved in, but now, that’s all shifted. 

I absentmindedly begin to tap my foot on the tiled floor of the train car and peel my eyes away from my phone for a minute while I ponder what to text back. I want to think that we’ll figure something out. Frank had even made the wild suggestion of _buying another bed_ , but where would we fit it? It’s not like the apartment was really designed for two people, anyways. We’re just making it work.

And I’d made it work while I was crashing on Mikey and Alicia’s couch for months on end as I’d been stuck in the limbo brought on by my breakup with Bert. If me sleeping on the couch (again) is how we’re going to make it work this time, then so be it. 

_It’s Frank’s apartment first and foremost_ , I think. _Don’t want to be imposing_.

My internal monologue is cut short by the sudden screeching of the train, halting to a stop. The conductor’s voice is only just audible through the tinny audio quality of the vehicle’s loudspeaker, but judging by what I can see outside the windows, we’ve arrived at the stop just before mine. We’re nearing the end of the route, and only a handful of commuters remain seated, the rest scurry out the double-sided doors as they automatically glide open, briefcases and messenger bags in tow. I reach for my own bag and tighten it around my shoulder. I’d better make this quick.

_**Gerard:** I’ve got a plan. I’m going to go ahead and sleep on the bed when I get back home, BUT, if you return from work at some ungodly hour and want it, the bed’s yours. I don’t mind moving to the couch. Sound like a deal? _

_**Frank:** Sounds good :) _

★

I’m dizzy when I wake up and come to the next morning. I don’t know what time it is, but I know that I’m still tucked into bed, my grandma’s quilt bunched up at my feet likely as a result of restless sleeping. I glance over to the nightstand, and grab around for my phone. The numbers on the bright screen tell me it’s ten o’clock. 

I’m not used to sleeping in this late. I’m usually an early riser, even on weekends. So maybe that’s why my head feels funny—I’ve fucked with my circadian rhythm or something. Or whatever. That’s something my mom would say.

It’s noticeably cold, and my legs are the first to feel it as my body perks up again from sleep. I’d been so fucking tired that I hadn’t really bothered to dig some pajamas out of my half of the dresser drawers when I’d gotten home last night: I’d just stripped down to my underwear and fell into bed. It’s February, though, and New Jersey had just gotten hit with some snow not too long ago, so maybe I should’ve at least tugged on some sweatpants or something. And it’s not like Frank or I can afford to keep the heater running at full blast all night long.

As I’m in the middle of mentally cursing myself for last night’s decisions, it suddenly hits me: _I’m in bed_. Meaning, Frank either A.) hadn’t bothered to wake me up to move me to the couch or B.) made a last minute decision to actually go to his mother’s. If it’s the former, I think I might actually be sort of peeved. During the entirety of the time I’ve been Frank’s roommate thus far, it’s been a consistent worry of mine that I would somehow impede upon his space. I know I live here now, too, but I’d feel like an intruder. If anything, seeing him sleep on the couch instead of _in his own bed_ would really cement that suspicion in my head.

Willing myself to hop out of bed, I suppose there’s only one way to find out. Before I leave the bedroom, I rummage around in my drawers for a pair of sweatpants and the first clean tee shirt I come upon, because, you know, on the off chance that he’s here, I don’t want to totally mortify him. Frank’s seen far too much of me already. 

★

Frank had definitely decided to not wake me up whenever he got home, because the moment I stepped out of the bedroom and passed into the living room, the very first thing my eyes caught onto was him splayed out on the couch, one leg practically extended out onto the floor below, still dead asleep. I’d chosen to admonish him for that later, once, you know, he wasn’t one hundred percent unconscious—I’d let him get the shut-eye he needed. Lord knows how taxing working the graveyard shift at a mental health crisis facility probably was.

Once my temporary annoyance had subsided, however, I had realized I’d sort of just been looking at Frank while I’d been standing in the middle of the living room, and I made quick work of shuffling out of there and into the kitchen. I couldn’t help but take note of how peaceful he seemed, despite the fact that his body was contorted enough to rival some of those crazy pictures you see in those _Ripley’s Believe It or Not!_ books. He was fucking knocked out, but even in that, he looked… sort of beautiful. And I want to slap myself in the face for thinking that way, because I shouldn’t be thinking in that manner about my roommate, no less my roommate who literally just went through a breakup and is more likely than not straight. But, _God_ , I couldn’t help it. The way his long eyelashes were laid out at the bottom of his closed eyelids should be illegal. 

It’s closer to noon now, and I’m in the kitchen cooking up a quick breakfast for myself, still mentally chiding myself for essentially watching Frank as he slept. _God, what is this, fucking_ Twilight _?_ Whether intentional or not, I’m at the very least glad that he wasn’t awake to catch onto that.

A fresh pot of coffee is gurgling on the opposite side of the counter, and a full serving of just-cooked bacon is laid out on several sheets of paper towels to drain the grease. I’d dug through some of the kitchen’s cabinets, realizing that I’d never fully explored the kitchen equipment that Frank already had, and came upon a small plug-in waffle iron. Even more excitingly, I’d found a glass mason jar full of chocolate chips tucked in alongside the boxes of minute rice and the packets of instant ramen. Suddenly, the prospect of chocolate chip waffles is making my mouth water. 

Evidently, though, my immense hunger and the thought of my soon-to-be breakfast aren't enough to distract my mind from wandering around with thoughts of Frank once again. Taking the waffle iron’s short black cord and plugging it into the nearest outlet above the counter, I’m replaying in my head just how Frank had looked when I’d seen him asleep on the couch earlier this morning. 

It wasn’t just his long eyelashes. It was also his cheeks, which were ever-so-slightly tinged pink. It was his cute, pointy nose, which scrunched up whenever he shifted in his sleep. It was his lips, which were just slightly parted, enough to let out soft snores. I imagine, for a moment, how nice it’d be to kiss those lips, to feel those long eyelashes against my cheeks.

And, _God_ , I am so fucked.

I cut those thoughts short and instead turn back to my cooking, grabbing around in the cabinets for any bowl that’ll be somewhat large enough for mixing batter in. As I’m taking some pancake mix, some milk, and a gratuitous amount of chocolate chips and dumping them into the bowl I’ve chosen, I eyeball my phone, which is lying facing upwards on the counter only feet away from where I’m positioned right now. It’s releasing one pitchy _ding_ after another, although I’m too far away to glimpse what kind of notifications I’m receiving.

Reminded of my phone, I once again think back to the idea of online dating, and the Tinder app that’s been untouched since I downloaded it last evening. Maybe once I’m finished fixing my breakfast I’ll actually make myself a profile and get things running. I’m still not one hundred percent sure if I’m ready to put myself out there again; the concept of it makes me feel massively vulnerable. I’ve also just never dated online before— _what the fuck should I even put on my profile?_ It feels like I’m going to be creating an advertisement for myself or something. Really, all I can envision doing is uploading the few pictures of me that don’t make me supremely self-conscious and writing out something in my “about me” section that’s simple and to the point. I don’t know. I just want to attract people that _don’t suck_ , is all.

Almost in response to myself, I catch myself thinking _Frank doesn’t suck_. 

I almost want to shake my head in spite of myself as I give the waffle batter I’ve created one final stir, scraping around the bowl’s walls with a silicone spatula. I know I’ve got to cut this shit out. As far as I (and anyone else, for that matter) should be concerned, Frank is totally off-limits. Developing a crush on your roommate should be a no-go. All I’ve got to do is find some guy, who, like I said, _doesn’t suck_ and likes me just as much as I like him.

But I think that this—this, as in _cutting off my attraction to Frank and putting myself back out there in the dating world_ —is going to be much more difficult than I think it'll be. Because the very moment I begin to spoon some batter onto the waffle iron’s warmed-up surface, Frank himself is stumbling into the kitchen, still clad in his rumpled pajamas, rubbing at his tired eyes with a balled-up fist. We both sort of nod in each other’s general direction when we first take note of each other.

“Mornin’,” Frank mumbles, his voice more hoarse than I’ve ever heard it before. It’s not like I have much to compare it to, given that we’ve only talked on the phone a handful of times and met in person a grand total of once, but _God_. I need to stifle the sudden twistiness of my stomach.

I watch as he makes his way into a chair by the round kitchen table, and I reply, “Good morning. I’ve made breakfast—coffee and bacon are already ready. Want some?”

“I’m a vegetarian, so I’ll pass on the bacon,” he says, his voice sounding more perky at the offer of being fed, “but count me in for coffee. I’ll get up and pour myself some once I wake up a little bit more.”

I chew on my bottom lip. _Note to self: remember to not offer Frank meat ever again._ Before I can say anything else to Frank, though, I take advantage of the lull in conversation to offer to pour Frank a cup of coffee myself. “You’re tired, dude, and you’ve already sat down. Let me take care of it.”

By the time I’ve got my back turned to Frank and I’m migrating over to the freshly-brewed pot of coffee, I think I can hear him chuckling lightly, and my heart jumps. I smile, but he can’t see it.

“You know, Gee, when you moved in, I didn’t expect you to be such a little housewife,” he laughs. 

I turn back to him, coffee pot in hand, and offer him a wry grin. “Well, count your blessings. I’m just feeling particularly nice today.”

 _There’s that nickname again._

As we laugh, and as I finish preparing his coffee, asking him just how he likes it, I can’t help but think that I might start to really like it here even more than I already do if Frank starts to stay on weekends more often.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week's fic rec is ["Mysterium Inquitatis"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28267305/chapters/69271056) by p4tr0ns4int. I love a good vampire fic and this is one of the best I've read in a while. I'm officially hooked on it and couldn't recommend it more.


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